


I Love You Like An Alcoholic

by stories11



Series: One Last Kiss [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Barely functional gay idiot has more depth than expected, Curt is an asshole some of the time, Here there be dark material, M/M, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2017, Not for the faint of heart kiddos, Owen is an asshole basically always, Seriously it's rated M for a reason and it's not the language, Slow Burn, The brutal shit starts in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12594436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories11/pseuds/stories11
Summary: I need you like I need a broken leg.The origins of Curt and Owen's partnership. Prequel to Alexithymia.





	1. I Walk The Line

     Lounging back against the chair, the agent has a casual sort of air about him that only seems to add to the elusive sort of eternal bachelor vibe he's come to cultivate in his two years in field service. Legs spread with arms crossed over his chest as he studies the ceiling above him with a languid sort of interest, waiting for the director to come into the room. Susan had let him in, but he silently questioned why she'd bothered to call him in if she couldn't show the decency to be there herself. A slamming door snaps his head up to see none other than Director Houston in a considerably foul mood. _Fouler than usual_ , at the very least. Curt almost opens his mouth to defend his actions, but one sharp glare is enough to silence the words in his throat and paralyze his lungs mid breath. He might look comical like that, frozen mid thought, with lips parted and brow slightly furrowed, but Cynthia takes no notice. Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor breaking the spell enough to make him flinch as the sound reached him. The man who seemed so casually cool only minutes before suddenly looks as though he'd rather be anywhere but here, a child about to be scolded. When she crosses her ankles atop her desk, his knees instinctually snap together and his feet rest flat on the floor as he looks ahead, not at her, but through her. Eyes roll back momentarily. So one small apartment building was flattened, but it was under construction. The only people injured in the collapse were the men he was supposed to be taking in anyways, and he'd done just that. What did it matter how he'd gotten them _and_ the plans, as long as he'd gotten them?

     "Look, I-"

     "Shut your fucking mouth, Mega, I'll let you know when it's your goddamn turn to talk."

     The words come out in a snarl, lips sneering as she glares at him, already pulling open a drawer to grab a cigarette and lighter.

      _Curt fucking Mega is a liability_. For his success record, he's less than ideal in his methods, and his brand of recklessness tends to leave a swath of collateral damage in his wake that she has neither the patience nor the time to clean up. If even a quarter of the agents beneath her control acted with so little self control and a modicum of his self centered arrogance, she wouldn't have to be asked to resign, she would willingly leave the post that she's spent spent years of her life clawing her way to reach. A woman in charge of the secret service, unheard of. Ridicule and mockery has met her at every turn, a woman indeed. As if she doesn't have bigger balls than her predecessor as she guided the United States through the Cold War. The first of its kind, and there had been repeated calls for her to step down and allow a man to take charge of it all. She hadn't capitulated then, and she won't now.

      _Curt Mega is a risk_. One she'd chosen to take on. Freshly 18 when the war with Russia began, he was the first recruit for a new type of warfare. Fresh blood to an old boys club. This fight wouldn't be fought by the soldiers of old, but by the new who could adapt to a world shifting around them. His mistakes fall squarely on her shoulders, and now they're heavy but they refuse to give way and her back refuses to break under the weight. They need him, but not that desperately. Not so desperately that they can risk civilian lives with his hero complex bullshit and overwrought arrogance.

     Dark eyes are leveled at him from behind the barrier of the desk that she'd very much like to throw at him if she thought there was a chance it would break through that thick skull of his. The unfortunate mental image of throwing it at him only to watch it bounce away leaving him miraculously unhurt in the process. Cigarette is forced into place to stop her from choking up the bile that's surely building in the back of her throat, threatening to escape. She can't get through to him, she's been trying, but maybe this will finally get to him.

     "I have calls for your head on a fucking platter, you know that? I spent half the fucking morning fighting for your job, and I don't even know why the fuck I did that. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't fire you right now." His lips purse, one leg crossing over the other and he's about to answer _because you need me_ but she cuts him off before he can breathe a single syllable. "That was rhetorical, save your fucking breath. You're one screw up from getting kicked from the goddamn agency and that's no one's fault but your own."

     "You're not going to fire me. You've said it before, but you never follow through. Come up with a new line." His tone is almost indignant, underscored by the scoff that falls forth before the statement His shoulders roll, and he looks to the left. Even so he can feel the glare on him, attempting to bore through the thick shroud of arrogance that he keeps tight clasped around him. Armor in a world not kind to men like him. Not what he shows to others, but what lies deep within that he has to worry. Those deviant little feelings that he can't risk a single soul finding out about so he buries himself in the caricature of what he's meant to be. Acts like consequences are nothing to him, as long as he does they usually don't. But not this time, he can feel it in the air like electricity, an oncoming storm. Cynthia's heels make contact with the ground and he can hear all thirteen footsteps between her rising from her chair and coming to stand in front of him.

     "You've never caught civilians in the crossfire before." Her tone is cool, sharp, punctuated by a puff off her cigarette as Curt's eyes suddenly snap to her. She can see him squirming, debating between asking who and trying to deny the claims that must surely be false. They're true. Cynthia might lie about many things, but this is no scare tactic. No one died this time, but it's no guarantee for the next. He's heading down a path that's destined for tragedy if he doesn't learn to straighten out and do right. A waste of potential. "There are currently seventeen people in hospice for smoke inhalation."

     Watching him exhale a breath of relief, she can watch his emotions shift beneath his pitiful lack of a poker face. Confusion ebbs to relief and finally to mild anger, but before he can utter a word of aggravation she pulls the cigarette from her lips. "It might just be smoke this time, but it'll be a fucking bullet next time as long as you're keeping up with this reckless bullshit."

     Whatever comeback he might have for that is lost as she reaches back onto her desktop and takes hold of two small papers and flicks them in Curt's direction, rolling her eyes as they hit his chest and flutter in separate directions steadily to the floor. His arms unfold in time to catch one before its flight can reach its end, and he looks it over briefly as the director thrusts a pen in his direction, that he absently takes hold of. Name, age, eye color, hair color, height, _cause of death_. The last gives him pause and he half expects to look up to see a gun in her hand, trained and poised to splatter his brains across the shining hardwood. Instead he's greeted only by a cigarette and a callous expression. "Fill it out, don't worry about the last one, we'll deal with that when we come to it."

    Not if, when. He notes the distinction, still obediently fills in the slip that might adorn his body bag. Mind briefly flits to the image of his heart broken mother sobbing as she loses another. All she has left is a son that might soon be claimed by the same service that claimed his father before him. At least that's what they're meant to believe by his disappearance before Curt's memories began to form. Enough stories have been told for him to carry the distaste in his mouth and deep in the pit of his stomach. Passing back the paper and pen, he leans down to grasp the paper that had slipped by and come to rest on the floor.

     "What's this, funeral arrangements?"

    "That," The woman says, gesturing to the note absently as she looks over the slip for inaccuracies or errors. "is your next assignment. If you survive it, and you don't get yourself into even deeper shit, then consider yourself off probation."

     At the mention of probation he wants to protest, but he holds his tongue at risk of making things worse. _Bucharest, Romania. Thursday. Noon. Macca Villacrosse Passage. The shoes might be a step too far. But they're what brings the outfit together._ Rolling his eyes once again, he looks to her. "What is this, a joke?"

     Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth as she sets the first paper on the desk with a shake of her head. "That's your next mission. It's your last shot, Mega, don't fucking blow it."

     Standing up, he still feels small compared to her despite the way he looks down at her. "So I make one mistake, and suddenly you're treating me like a child? No case file, I don't even know who I'm looking for."

     Making no effort to be kind, she blows her smoke directly into his face in a blatant act of disrespect. She has no respect to give him at a time like this. He's acting like a child, why shouldn't she treat him like one? Rolling the words around inside her mouth, she won't tell him that she would hate to see him fail this particular test. "It's not _one_ mistake. I've got a goddamn file on your mistake about three inches thick, in two years that's a goddamn record. You're a fucking spy, you'll figure it out. Now get the fuck out of my goddamn office before I reconsider giving you one more chance."

     Pointing to the door, she stares him down, and for a moment he stares back before capitulating. Fist curls around the so called assignment as he walks out, and it takes more willpower than he'd like to admit not to simply throw it in the garbage and demand a straight answer. If she wants him to play this game, then he'll play into it. It stems less so from his pride as many would be lead to believe, but instead that he simply loves his job. He loves making a difference, helping people, doing something palpable for the good of the world. Whatever test she's having him take, he'll ace it, and with flying colors. He tells himself that the eyes he feels on him as he exits the building are only phantoms in his mind.

* * *

     Sunlight filters through the glass overhead in unnatural shades of gold that spill out over the street. It's still morning, but noon isn't far off. The agent sits at a small cafe, absentmindedly stirring his lightly spiked coffee. It's not something he does often, but the image of that slip is still echoing through his mind with the word probation. He can't afford to screw this up but it's the only way he can calm his jittering nerves as he's still not convinced this isn't some sort of set up. Twenty years old and he's questioning his mortality the way he's been so adamant is unnecessary. Nothing and no one will take take down special agent Curt Mega. He's too good for that. A striking woman steps out of the nearby hotel, and his attention is immediately drawn to her. Not due to any attraction, but for the fact she looks out of place, but only slightly. A touch too clean, a bit too well dressed, something about her simply says that she doesn't belong. _The shoes might be a step too far_. His eyes drift downwards to shining silver stilettos. A step too far indeed. The waiter passes his table as his focus is drawn to her, asking if he'd like more coffee, and he agrees without truly understanding the question. In the corner of his eye, he's vaguely aware of the coffee being poured as he watches her. She stands a bit straighter as she looks around, at him and then through him before she stops someone passing by, seeming to ask for directions before she walks in the opposite direction.

     Sighing, he turns his attention back to the coffee before him. In a mere moment, he drains the cup to the last drop without notice of the heat or taste. Perhaps she wasn't his mark, but they have to be around here somewhere. As he rises he can almost feel eyes upon him, but he can't locate the source. Dropping a fistful of currency on the table, he steps out of the cafe and into the golden light that seems to him to be just a touch too warm for the day.

     He doesn't remember the weather being quite this uncomfortable before. It's not long then before he's almost made it to the hotel and he's certain that it's sweltering. The heat is dizzying, and it's hard to think, to breathe. Limbs are heavy and numb, fumbling as he tries to remove his jacket. He doesn't understand how anyone can be wearing one in weather like this, but it seems to his eyes that everyone is. Something is wrong, and it's setting off hazy signals of alert somewhere in the depths of his mind but he can make no sense of them as he stumbles out of the burning golden light and into the unfiltered sun that seems to burn all the brighter. In his delusional haze he seeks what he can only perceive as shelter from the heat in the form of an alleyway, shadows that might provide some relief to his blistering skin and burning eyes, but it seems to offer naught but darkness. Or maybe that's simply the shadows creeping into the edges of his vision as his body is beginning to capitulate to the heavy weight of himself and exhaustion is upon him as surely as a predator on its prey. Even through the exhaustion he can sense the eyes following him. Always watching.

     Body sags against the stone wall and his knees go weak before his legs give way completely. With eyes fluttering closed, his consciousness is fading fast, but not before he can feel hands touching him, lifting his limp form, but not without effort. Somehow, without benefit of sight, he know that they're the hands that belong to the eyes.


	2. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for torture, needles, guns, and choking.

     Consciousness comes back in pieces. A puzzle without a box to consult. It comes first in wrists, bound tight with a rope tied with little consideration for his circulation. A stinging sort of sensation emanates where the rough material digs into flesh, not yet breaking skin from the lack of struggle in his unconsciousness. His aching knees come next, still sore from their violent connection with the ground before the darkness had conquered him. The pieces are starting to come together faster now as the serious nature of the situation comes into focus. He is no stranger to restraints, but he's always been conscious when he was taken, always managed to fight his way out before he found himself in these dire straits. This new paradigm, the helplessness of it. Hyperawareness sets his teeth on edge as he's suddenly quite aware of restraints on his ankles as well, something covering thick bound to cover his eyes and the smell of ammonia. True consciousness comes with a sharp, involuntary intake of air. All element of surprise is lost, but his captor is a clever one who would have known regardless. 

     "Mr. Mega, how kind of you to join me."

     The accent is indiscernible, something that sounds familiar and yet strange at the same time. The loss of his sight is disorienting at best, only further muddying the waters as he struggles to make sense of the strange mix of scents and sensation. Wrists twist testingly against the ties that bind but it only seems to serve in shredding away the topmost layer of skin. Only a few meager inches of slack allow him movement, but it hardly allows for his hands to touch, a dangerous lack of leverage to free himself. It seems to him however that the greater disadvantage is that the mysterious stranger who's bound him know who he is, but he can't say the same. Training has prepared him for this. His spine straightens, jaw tightens, a fleeting series of thoughts and observations that all pass in a matter of milliseconds.

     "You've got the wrong guy."

     The first rule of any interrogation is to deny everything, regardless of how utterly obvious the truth may be. A great spy can make someone question their own senses no matter how utterly obvious it might seem. Agent Curt Mega may not be a great spy, but he's trying to be. So he'll ignore the sudden clasp on his throat, the way he suddenly struggles to breathe as a leather gloved hand digs into the flesh violently, forces his head to such an angle he has to imagine that without the blindfold he would be looking into their eyes. A man, he presumes, trying to formulate answers despite the lack of oxygen. A woman wouldn't have the raw strength, and the hands would be too small for such a task.

     "No, I don't think that I do."

     The voice is another indicator, but he knows all too well how easily one can shift pitch and intonation to become an entirely new person. The more information he can gather, the more likely he is to be able to manipulate this situation to his advantage. But that's only if he manages to survive longer than this brief awakening, and with a tightening grip around his throat it's difficult to know if it'll be possible. The leather clad hand suddenly releases, and the air rushes in to inflate his depleted lungs, and he can feel the presence shift away from him quite suddenly. Part of him screams to attempt some sort of plea, in an attempt to assuage them, but he has the feelings that should he convince them that he is indeed the wrong man in such a display, that it would only end in his demise. He opts instead to steel himself against what is sure to come. With any luck his mark will come to his aid, but he has a sinking feeling in his chest that says maybe his unending supply of luck has finally run dry with this current predicament.

     "I know who you are, and I know who you work for Curt Mega... I just want to know who you're working with. Tell me that, and you'll go free."

      _No I won't_. The words shoot back instantaneously, but he holds them back behind his clenched teeth. It's simply a tactic to get to him to talk, and a feeble one at that. The sort that no one truly expects to work, the sort that even a civilian would know better than to trust. He's not one to give so easily, not one to break the moment an ounce of pressure is applied, he knows better than this. He _is_ better than this. Hands curl into fists and twist against the ropes once more despite the way it tears at the skin, it makes it easier to focus and stay grounded without sight. A tether that he can control, is only minutely. A key to keeping his sanity through this and his head level. Even if he wanted to tell this mysterious captor about the mark, how can he if he isn't aware himself? Of course if he were so inclined, he could tell them about the meeting location, the time, the code- the woman in the silver heels, but he won't. This is where he will hold his ground and refuse surrender until his last breath. Rule number two, keep your lies concise. The less you speak, the less they can use against you. Jaw unsteels, his mouth contorts and he wants to make some sort of snappy comeback or snarky comment but he holds his tongue and manages to allow his better judgement to take the helm.

     "You've got the wrong-"

     Words are cut off by the air being ejected from his lungs as something makes contact with his chest hard and fast. It feels like a baseball bat. It feels like at least three of his ribs fractured if they didn't break at the force of the blow. A pained groan is forced forward at the pain as he struggles once again for air while trying to brace himself for another hit to come without warning. Trying to see is futile through the thick fabric so he tries to listen for footsteps, for movement in the room. Anything that might serve as a warning to muscles now violently tensing.

     "Lying will do you no good, Mega, you'll have to try harder than that to fool us. We already know that you're working for the Americans."

      _Us_. So it's not a he, it's a  we. The Russians? It's possible, certainly not unheard of. The KGB would be the most likely suspect, but it's not as if the United States has any shortage of enemies overseas. If he could at least get a good look at the guy in question he might be able to figure it out, but the blindfold has turned his world black as pitch and the strange accent does little to help with his perceptions or lack thereof. Even with the pain that ricochets through his chest, he's keeping himself on edge, searching for an opening in the trap.

     In his gasping breaths he can sense smell something in the air. The ammonia smell is gone, but there's something else there. _Bleach_. An idiot could easily guess why that would be in the air, a thought that might lead him to alarm at the realization that he's not the first to be here, but there's something else. Something that makes the bleach only slightly less frightening. _Soap_. A strange smell for this situation to say the least. Pausing his breath he listens closer than before, not for the footsteps like before, nor for his pounding heartbeat, but for something else. Muffled sound, seeping through the wall just like the faint scent of soap, the rumbling of machines. It's not much, but it's enough to bring another piece to the puzzle. Laundry. He's narrowed down his location, if only slightly. The thrum of not one machine, but many. Industrial. Perhaps he'll have a greater chance if he can just manage to free himself from the man's clutches.

     With this discovery comes a drawback, however. In his hyper focus, he'd forgotten the third rule of interrogation. Never lose the enemy. In tuning out the sound of footsteps he lost track of him, the bat wielding maniac with a strange voice. It's impossible to tell where he is in the room, whether he's even present. Curt can't even hear the sound of breathing that isn't his own, it's merely a void. Nothing but the dizzying smell of bleach and the detergent. And then he's there again, a piercing pain as a needle stabs into skin, and something is forced into his veins. Something that begins to burn even as it enters his bloodstream. Muscles tense and teeth gnash as the needle is withdrawn, the burning feeling ripping through him as the blood pounds through him all the harder with the fear of the unknown. It hurts, and his heart throbs violently at the fire ridden intrusion. Teeth clench and he wants to shout from the pain, but he refuses to allow the captor such a show of weakness. He hears something that he can only describe as a derisive laugh as he hears the footsteps retreat a few steps, nostrils flaring both from pain and frustration.

     "Perhaps you'll feel more cooperative now... If you give up your associate, I'll make the pain go away. "

     "You mean that you'll kill me."

     "It would end your pain, wouldn't it?" Even through the blindfold he swears he can feel the bastard smiling at him. "Are you really naive enough to think that this can end any other way?"

     "I'm telling you... you have the wrong guy." It's a risk to say, but he says it all the same through the grit of grinding teeth, trying to battle the pain from within through sheer force of will. He'd be glaring at him if he could only see him, but he clings to the lie, simple as it may be. The energy in the air seems to shift to him, but he can't place a finger on how or why. But he can feel it on his skin and in his lungs like static electricity, unseen but surely felt all the same. The eyes are on him again, the same as earlier, trying to bore through his armor and into his mind but he relentlessly battles against them just as he wages war against the fire inside of him. It hangs there in the air between them, heavy and thick, refusing to be moved, until finally his captor speaks again.

     "Give it an hour, we'll see how you feel then. After all this is only the beginning... It only gets worse. You'll soon be begging for death, at _any_ cost."

     The footsteps retreat, and he listens closely as he hears the door close. Not quite silence, not with the distant sound of washing machines, but at the very least there are no more footsteps and while not entirely reassuring, it at the very least proves to be an improvement on the situation. The timer is suddenly ticking down quite rapidly. There is only so long to free himself from this trap, and he can't be certain that an hour is long enough to manage it. There's no room for error. It takes time, too much of it, to free his feet. The pain and darkness are disorienting as he works at his task relentlessly, finally managing to tip the chair far enough to slide the binds off the legs, affording himself some range of motion that was previously lost to him. Burning in his veins only grows more prevalent as his actions become more frantic and the shifting as he moves himself towards the edge of the chair only serves to aggravate the cracked ribs, he just has to hope that his plan works, and is worth the pain it brings. Head tips back until it reaches the back of the chair, and with an uncomfortable set of motions, he finally manages to catch the blindfold on the edge to push it up until he's finally regained his sight.

     In that moment he's blinded by the bright lights pointed in his direction. It's something that he guesses was quite intentional for a scenario quite like this. Another layer of disorientation. Whoever this guy is, Curt has to begrudgingly admit that they're damn good at this, but that doesn't mean that he's ready to give up just yet despite the pained sounds that come with each breath and the spots in his vision. He'll survive this if it kills him, he won't allow the bastard the pleasure. As vision begins to return, he does his best to survey the room. A table of glinting instruments to his right, another table to his left, the floor below is concrete, and as he looks behind he sees the closest wall is nearly forty feet away. If all else failed, with the right momentum he could break his hands against it to free himself. It would hurt, but he'll do what he has to if it means freeing himself. Finally, his attentions return to the room in front of him, forcing himself to try to see past the lamps so pointedly directed at him. A door sits in the left corner, something that might have caught his interest if not for the fact that the man standing beside it chose the moment his gaze fell upon it to move.

      The menacing force that's been tormenting him, a man dressed in black, he presumes as a way to stay hidden by the shadows until he felt the need to make his presence. The sick bastard has stuck around to watch the show. A simple black hood masks his features, making him impossible to read.

     "You're resourceful Mega, I'll give you that, however I don't have all day for this. As much as I'd love to get to see what makes you tick... it looks like we'll have to expedite the process."

     Somehow, he doesn't feel reassured by the ominous statement, even less so when the man in black moves to the table to his left. As his captor's back is turned, he does the only thing he can. He kicks his leg out to catch the leg of the table to the right to knock the instruments. With his minimal range of motion, he outstretches his hand and hopes that what little luck he has will extend to this moment. This hope, like many, enacts itself in a half measure when a rather large and surprisingly sharp hunting knife lands in his palm, blade first.

     " _Shit_." The word comes tumbling out of his mouth as if it too has fallen to the ground, even as the blood wells on top of tender flesh, adjusting only enough to hide it behind his forearm when the other looks to him. It strikes him somehow as condescending, even without an expression to read. He might have tried to recover it somehow if he didn't see another needle in those leather gloved hands that makes him shrink back in his seat ever so slightly if unwillingly. There's a laugh there, soft but clear, that underscores and confirms the condescension he could feel.

     "Don't worry, this won't hurt. It's just something to inspire you to be a bit more  _forthcoming_ with the truth..."

     "Truth serum."

     "If it helps you to dull it down that much, then yes, truth serum... but that would imply all it does is make sure that you're telling the truth. This is a bit more intricate than that." The man in black moves a bit closer at that, but not within range of his now freed legs, not yet. "No, you see, this is specially formulated, you won't just be telling the truth... you won't be able to stop yourself. You'll be spilling every secret you have the moment it takes effect, and as soon as I have what I have- well I suppose that's the end of you, Mega."

     "You have-"

     "The wrong guy, so you've said, this-"

     Before Curt can react, the hooded figure is beside him, and the needle has already been stabbed into his leg. He can't lash out in time to stop it from happening, so he does what little he can. Maneuvering the knife ever so carefully so the handle rests in his left hand, he begins sawing at the rope wrapped around his right wrist. He can't take this chance, he has to free himself before the damage is irreparable. As the figure moves in front of him, he spits in his direction with a violent glare. He can feel the rope starting to give even as he carves the skin of his forearm and hand in the process. Finally it falls away, but the job is only half done.

     "I won't tell you _shit_."

     "What happened to having the wrong man?"

     " _This_." With bloody fists, and a hunting knife in hand, Curt is suddenly rising, but he stumbles as the rush of blood pulses with a new wave of excruciating pain in his ribs and veins. In the mere moment it takes him to regain balance, he finds himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. _So this is how it ends_. Not by the pistol, no he'd rather die than allow himself to give up the information and jeopardize the life of another agent. The serum could take hold at any moment, so instead he raises the knife to his own throat, prepared to do as he must to protect and serve his country. Twenty years of life, two years of service, he always imagined he'd go down in a blaze of glory. Not at his own hand.

The man in black holds his stance for a long moment, and the knife begins to draw a fine line of scarlet across his flesh before finally the gun lowers. Then comes the hood. Beneath it is a slender man wit a crooked jaw and dark hair, voice rings out again, but the accent is different this time, british. Now there was a twist he didn't see coming.

     "Congratulations, Mega, you passed. I might be able to trust you-- _Owen Carvour_ , MI6. The shoes might be a step too far."

     It's a long moment before the knife lowers slowly, and Curt stares wide eyed at the british agent. To realize this was all some twisted form of a test makes his stomach knot and his blood boil inside of him, but the knife still slips from blood slicked fingers. The staring slowly melts and ebbs, giving way to a dark glower as he continues to stare wordlessly. He knows he's meant to swallow the indignity and pain of this in the name of professionalism, but there's anger in him. It's rearing its ugly head with a sneer. Bloodied fist curls rather suddenly, and he swings at the other with unbridled rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my best friend and roommate Joan who spent an hour of her life struggling to get a blindfold off while tied to a chair (with consent of course) just so I could observe and know if it would be plausible and if so how.


	3. Take A Shot. Take A Chance.

     Anger is palpable as it rushes inside him as surely as the toxin, seeping out of the broken skin along with the blood. A test. A sick, twisted test. So this had been the reason for Cynthia's show of having him fill out the slip for cause of death, just a scare tactic. Burgeoning rage is blossoming into an all consuming murderous intent, and he's certain that he'd love nothing more than to see this smug bastard on the floor, spitting blood and teeth. It might not be equal, but it would certainly make him feel better if nothing else. He doesn't get the chance to see it happen. Rather than fist connecting with face it's caught in a firm grasp before he gets anywhere close before he finds himself staring rather intently at the floor as his arm is twisted and forced behind is back in one swift motion, drawing out another pained sound that Owen seems to only take as encouragement to twist a bit harder, forcing Curt to accept how truly helpless he is in this particular moment in time. He hates himself for it.

     "Try to swing at me like that again, and I'll make sure that you can't. Be bitter about this little test all you want, but I like to know that I can _trust_ my partners... even the incompetent ones."

     The force is leveraged a touch harder for a fraction of a second before he finally releases the American who stumbles forward as he draws his injured arm forward. The place where the older had gripped is wrist is certain to bruise later, but that's the least of his concerns for the moment as he slicks the area with blood as his fingertips trace over top of the grip. He takes a step away before he turns to face him again with a glare and a snarl on his lips. Indignation laces his words like venom and he's always been better with fists than with words.

     "So, what, you just casually torture anyone you're working with as some sort of test?" He raises an eyebrow before he scoffs, shaking his head. "I bet that gun isn't even _loaded_."

     Words have barely left his lips when the gun is raised once more, aimed directly between his eyes, leather clad hands starting to squeeze the trigger when the aim is shifted only slightly. A bullet whizzes by his right ear, missing it by only centimeters, the same on his left. Shocked into silence and paralyzed by how close those had come to making contact. All it would take is one twitch of that unfailingly steady hand and he would fall. They stand frozen, staring unblinkingly at each other for a long moment as it's made exceedingly clear without words that Curt's life rests in the hands of a near perfect stranger. Second guessing him won't help the situation. With no small amount of hesitation he forces down the pride that rests on his tongue threatening to escape from its prison behind his teeth, and raises his bloody hands in a semblance of surrender. The point has certainly been made. The british agent's eyes narrow for a moment, as if analyzing the movement to watch for mockery or counter measure, but finding none, the gun lowers once again before being tucked away.

     "I don't make idle threats- if you'd given up _anything_ , you wouldn't be alive right now. I missed just now because I wanted to, so stop looking like you're about to piss in your trousers, it's like you've never been tortured before."

     Silence prevails between them for a moment and the american looks away without giving protest. In that moment, he can feel the other's calculating eyes on him as wipes the slick of blood on his hands over his pants. It won't be helpful for long, but he feels the need to do something with them as he stands waiting. There's little he can contribute to the conversation at hand without aggravating the other party further, and so he grows quiet in response.

     "You've never been tortured before?" He repeats the words in an incredulous manner, raising an eyebrow as he scoffs with derision at the man that he can hardly see through the darkness. "Are you even a spy? How long have you been doing this, a week?"

     "The whole point is not to be caught, isn't it?" Curt fires back with hardly a moment's hesitation. Perhaps he's just a touch more defensive than he should be, but after the events of the day and with pain still ricocheting through his veins, his temper is reaching a boiling point. Forever defensive of his age and experience in a field so largely dominated by men that seem to be perpetually reminding him that they've been doing this for as long as he's been alive, he bites hard when the bait is laid out before him so clearly. " _Two years_."

     Spitting the words so venomously at his feet, he doesn't know what sort of reaction he expects from him, but he feels something like a victorious feeling budding in his chest when he hears a quiet hum of acknowledgement, only to have it crushed the moment that the other agent gives a verbal response.

     "You could have fooled me."

     "What makes you think I'm so goddamn incompetent? I got out of your trap, I didn't break under torture, what the hell has you so convinced that I'm a bad spy?"

     Closing the distance between them in a few strides, Curt can make out his features, but only slightly in the backwash of light. It's difficult to tell if the smile is bemused or condescending as he looks him up and down.

     "You got distracted by a call girl at the cafe, and didn't watch your drink. First rule of spying, never drink anything you didn't make yourself. I didn't even have to wear a uniform, Mega, you were that easy to _fool_."

     His face contorts in response, trying to come up with a comeback that didn't fall entirely flat in the face of those comments. He screwed up, and he knows it, but he still feels the need to somehow justify or explain. _A lapse in judgement, I made a mistake_. The words almost fall out but he refuses, feeling somehow that he'll find the words to be pathetic. Such signs of weakness are unbecoming of a spy, so it's better to simply fall silent in the wake of that statement. Actions will disprove such a statement more easily than any words. Owen moves away, heading towards a corner of the room behind him but he stays still for another moment, still rolling the statement around inside of his head.

     "How did you know she was a call girl?"

     Turning to look in the direction the other had gone, his eyes narrow. Already knows the answer, but he wants to hear him say it. That this was a trap from the beginning, to solidify the lack of trust and level of contempt that he's feeling. To reassure him that it's entirely justified. Even now he can feel the british agent rolling his eyes as he opens a door that allows light to spill in and the sound of washing machines to grow louder. He'd been right about something at least.

     "Are you really that dense? I hired her." Shaking his head, Curt can almost feel the condescension permeating the air before the older cocks his head in the direction of the door impatiently. "We need to get a move on, you can patch yourself up in the car, we've got a long ways to go."

     Of course he has questions about where, and what exactly the mission is, but somehow he feels that they'll only be met with further condescension and disdain. With a momentary pause he rolls his shoulders and shrugs off the suit jacket that feels all too heavy and hot, but serves yet another purpose as he wraps his bloodied hands in the dark fabric. A slightly strange sight, but still more inconspicuous than a man with carved and bloody hands walking the streets of _wherever they are._ Walking towards the door, he bites back the urge to make a comment asking if he'd gotten his money's worth before or after capturing him. Aggravating him at the moment seems a poor choice, especially so long as there's a burning in his bloodstream that while now dulled, still demands attention along with the cuts that sting and the ribs that ache with each movement of his torso.

* * *

     Three hours of near silence find them driving down a near deserted highway, the younger now with hands wrapped and the burning sensation finally subsided in his blood, he sits in the passenger seat, he's only asked where they're going once, but it was greeted without response. He doesn't bother asking again, as the other seems to know where they're going well enough not to need a map. A sprawling landscape that seems to consist of farmland nestled between hills and mountains with only sparse trees. Slowly the setting sun is starting to paint the landscape in colors, and it at least answers one of his questions with approximation. He'd been out for several hours, not quite an exact measurement but it at least helps him to gauge how heavy and strong of a tranquilizer was used. _Know thy self, know thy enemy_. It's how he still views him, given no greater reasons to trust him yet. He might not have killed him when he had the chance, multiple chances in fact, but that doesn't mean that he expects him to be a true partner. Working alone is what he's always preferred, and based on the other's expression, the feeling is quite mutual. Even as he watches the countryside roll by he's spent quite a lot of time studying the other out of the corner of his eye. Handsome, he can't deny that, with dark hair framing his face and the way he intermittently runs his hand through to tame it when it falls too far forwards into his face. Confidence is clear with him, as well as condescension, and a strong disdain not just for him, but seemingly everything. It's no surprise to him, but there's a vaguely comforting feeling that comes with the fact that his disdain isn't solely for him. Why exactly Curt finds it a comfort, he can't say.

     Stretching his arms slightly in front of him, he sinks down deeper into his seat, it feels childish almost, this silent treatment that permeates the air and makes it thick and heavy. As if the other is waiting for an apology, but for what he doesn't know, and if he did he still wouldn't. If there's something that Curt Mega doesn't do, it's apologize, no matter what he has or hasn't done. Some people have learned that the hard way. A groan as his hips slide a little too far forward and pressure is exerted against the cracked ribs, and it's enough at least to make Owen look over to him with only the most vague interest on his face, though somehow the american feels like he would have quite the similar reaction if he'd just been shot.

     "I'm fine."

     No explanation for the sound, arms cross over his chest for a moment before he feels that he now even looks the part of a child and uncrosses them to push himself back up to an upright position in his seat.

     "Clearly." The response is concise, but even with the edge of condescension it strikes Curt as closer to neutral than it does as an attack or an attempt to slight him.

     "I'd be more fine if you'd just tell me where we're going."

     "You'll know when we get there."

     It's more of a response than he'd gotten earlier on, but it leaves him discontent. Blind trust is something he rarely gives to anyone, much less someone who had tortured him mere hours before. It sours in his stomach and makes bile rise in his throat at the mere thought. Owen Carvour has some nerve to ask him to simply trust in him even without words, and it gets under his skin. Maybe it's the fire that's been extinguished in his veins, or the sheer boredom of sitting in the car for so long, but once again he's feeling the desire to aggravate, to get answers of some sort if nothing else. Shifting in his seat, he rests against the headrest now looking directly at the other agent.

     "As reassuring as that is, I'd rather know now. At least then I might have an idea of when we'll get there."

     The mild annoyance on the other's face is noted, but he isn't prepared to simply cease his pestering, and surely he must realize that. An annoyed sort of sigh falls forward before the driver speaks up.

     "We're not going to get there tonight, we're getting a hotel."

     "Okay, then when are we stopping?"

     "You ask too many questions."

     "I'm a spy, gathering information it's what we do, in case you hadn't noticed."

     If he didn't know any better, he might have thought he saw only the slightest hint of amusement amongst the annoyance scrawled so clearly across his face and prevailing in his tone. This sort of back and forth might be pestering to the other agent, but for Curt it's more comfortable than the hours of uncut silence. Talking at least opens the door to the possibility of trust, to believing that he won't be met with a bullet the moment his eyes closed, that he can be confident that someone will be watching his back. From this angle he has a better look at the man, probably the best he's had since they'd officially 'met' though seeing him now he's certain that he'd seen him in the cafe that morning. An entirely unremarkable man who'd only drawn his eye because he'd been looking at everyone in the building as potential marks. Of course he'd noticed his looks, but it had only been a fleeting glance. It wouldn't be fitting to be gawking at men for as long as he's trying to keep his profile low and his secret just that. A secret. At least in watching the call girl he could be accused of nothing but being perhaps a bit too attentive in watching a beautiful woman. Creepy? Possibly, but at least it's not criminal.

     "You still didn't answer my question."

     His eyes remain trained intently on the agent, memorizing each crease on the man's face and the way his brow furrows only slightly with his frustration as his fingers drum only slightly on the wheel. Minor ticks that Curt finds himself wondering if Owen realizes has. One of the benefits of the sort of arrogant air that he surrounds himself with is that many discount his levels of perception. For all his rash actions and the way he runs his mouth, he's quite good at picking up on minor cues that go largely unnoticed by the world at large. It's the same reason that he's managed to bed no less than five agents within the CIA with a secret as dangerous as his own.

     "You talk too much."

     "Answer my question and maybe I'll shut up."

     "We both know that you won't."

     "Worth a shot."

     There's a lull in the conversation, but it feels more organic than before, less strained. Curt smiles just slightly, feeling that even with the annoyance he's making something similar to progress. Not trusting, not even acquaintances, but at least he's less worried about the idea that he might not wake up the next morning. Relaxing back into his seat he turns his gaze back to the road ahead.

     "Has anyone ever told you that you're bad at holding conversations?" Something like a quiet snort and even from the corner of his vision he can see the massive eye roll that occurs in the driver's seat and he laughs quietly in response. "I'll take that as a _yes_."

     Much of the night passes like that, the silence now broken. Curt does most of the talking as they drive through the dark with only occasional annoyed comments from the british agent, as they continue their drive through the countryside that grows dark around them until the only light left is the backsplash of the headlights on the road ahead.


	4. Paralyzer

     Curt doesn't remember falling asleep, but it must have happened at some point as he wakes to being shaken not so gently in the passenger seat. It's still dark, but they're parked outside of a hotel, and the circles around Owen's eyes say that it's likely been a few hours since he'd drifted off. The moment he's woken, the other withdraws his hand from his shoulder and it surprises him to find that he's almost disappointed. Of course, that might simply be a byproduct of the fact that he's found himself deprived of non violent touch in recent months. It's the easiest explanation for a strange sensation that he shakes off rather quickly when the other starts to speak.

    "We're already checked in, you're welcome to sleep in the car, but there's a bed for you in 423."

     With that, he leaves the key on the console and closes the car door, leaving the american alone with his thoughts as he's still shaking the sleep out of his thoughts. At least he'd woken up, if he was going to kill him, he likely wouldn't have bothered with the hotel. It's mildly reassuring if nothing else. Sitting in the passenger seat, he contemplates for a moment if the whole of the situation is just another elaborate test of some sort or another. A fraction of a second passes where he fiddles with his watch and debates the wisdom of calling Cynthia to ask her that very question, but he doubts that she would tell him even if it was. Getting yelled at while half asleep is the last thing he wants to deal with. After what feels to him to be an eternity, he palms the key and finally forces himself out of the car.

     Repeating the room number aloud as a reminder, he decides to head towards his room. A bed, he decides, would be far more comfortable for the night. If he's lucky he might even be able to get a shower in, and rewrap his hands. The bandages have long since been stained in crimson, perhaps with the less questionable surroundings and a steadier surface for working, he might still be able to administer stitches. Pausing, he turns back before he reaches the doors of the hotel and goes back to the car to retrieve the first aid kit. Of course he has his own, but it had presumably been left in Bucharest with the rest of his things. He'll simply have to make do.

     Upon opening the door to the hotel room, the first thing that he notices is that his things are sitting atop the nearest bed. It might be the most surprising thing if he hadn't happened to walk in the moment the bathroom door opened to reveal Owen with only a towel wrapped around his waist. It's enough that he begins to question if he's still dreaming, but the other agent's demeanor is nothing if not flippant, hardly sparing Curt a glance as he walks towards his own bed. The second bed had gone unnoticed in his cursory glance over the room.

     "Took you long enough, thought you might have chosen to sleep in the car."

    That's enough to convince him that it's not a dream, as it would have been a far different reaction if it were all in his head. The younger offers little more than a grunt of acknowledgement as he tosses his suit jacket onto his bed. Vaguely aware of the fact that the other is in fact wearing next to nothing, he averts his eyes, if only slightly, trying to disguise it as a glance towards the bathroom.

     "I'm gonna take a shower."

     The announcement is met with a wave of the hand from the other that without even a word tells him that the british agent couldn't care less exactly what his plans are for the moment, and he disappears into the restroom for the time being to wash away the sweat and blood of the day until the water runs clear. In the light he can see better the damage he's done to himself. At least it's long since stopped bleeding. The thought of it causes a wave of nausea to pass over him and he has to still for a moment to let it pass. The unfortunate realization that tending to his wounds in the room itself would be easier than making do with a sink lacking a counter makes his stomach drop and a second wave of nausea passes over him, but he's not entirely certain why. Looking around the room it's only then that it occurs to him that he hadn't brought any fresh clothes in with him, leaving him with only two options. There's a fleeting thought of making a similar entrance to Owen's, but he shakes his head, instead opting for a more modest route by replacing his pants and slinging his shirts over his forearm to be dealt with later.

     Some part of him is thankful that Owen is at least somewhat clothed upon emerging from the bathroom, though once more he's not sure why. At least not entirely. It's not like him to get hung up on straight men, and certainly not to be so distracted when it comes to someone he's supposed to be working with. He nods in the other's direction when he looks up briefly from what he can only assume is the case file. Maybe if he's lucky he'll be able to get a look at it when he's done mending his wounds. Moving to the side of the bed, he sets the first aid kit to his right before examining the cuts more closely beneath the light of the lamp on the bedside table. 

     Antiseptic, he decides, is the best first step. A quiet hiss is elicited as he pours the sanitizing liquid over them, and part of him wishes he'd had the sense to pull his flask from his bag as a sort of anesthetic before he'd begun the procedure. The quiet sound of pain is enough to draw the other's attention. Owen glances to him for only a moment before closing the case file, and stands to round the bed, stopping in front of Curt with hands outstretched to him.

     "Let me see your hands."

     "I've got it under control. I've patched myself up before, and I'll do it again." It's his turn to be flippant this time, not even raising his head to look at him as he responds, instead opting to continue studying his palms as he lets the liquid do its work. A scoff sounds overhead, and without warning, the older grabs his wrists to pull them closer and get a better look for himself.

    "Right, so you're planning on doing stitched with your left hand? There's no possible way that could go wrong." Voice positively drops with condescension, a sharpened blade made of his tongue in quiet contrast with the surprisingly gentle, if firm, touch as he looks at Curt's hands. Eye's flicker to the american and his voice softens a bit. "You really did a number on yourself, love. It'll be easier if you just put aside your pride and let me help. Faster too."

     Sigh is pried from the younger's unwilling lips, before his head lifts to look at him with something resembling capitulation. They're partners, he'll have to trust him sometime, even if he's the reason these cuts occurred at all. Slowly, he must relax the tension in his arms, and soften the sharp glare to something only slightly more amiable. Stubborn pride must relent, but only this once, and even then it's only because of the point made. He'd be helpless to mend his right hand on his own. It might be something of a forced trust, but it's a beginning at the very least. "Fine."

     Slowly, the work begins in silence. Perhaps it's a lack of things to speak about, but in his gut he knows what it really is. It's the unspoken acknowledgement that these marks in his skin wouldn't exist if not for the other and he knows that he simply doesn't care. That, and the fact that he keeps getting distracted by the fact that neither of them are wearing shirts at the moment. The pain is barely noticed as he finds himself looking over Owen's scars, wondering where they came from. An urge to touch them causes his arm to twitch and earns him a glare from the older, breaking the trance.

     "If you stopped bloody moving this would be done sooner."

     "Yeah well they wouldn't be there at all if you hadn't tortured me." He snaps before he can stop himself, damn that stubborn pride of his. 

     There's no response save for an eye roll, Curt knows he should have expected that. It's like working with a damn robot. He grumbles under his breath but the british agent works diligently regardless. Minutes seem to stretch into hours of silence, this time his head remains bowed so he can't allow himself to look. Rather he intensely studies the rather gaudy geometric pattern of the carpet beneath his feet and the rough texture of it against his skin. A few unwanted and certainly inappropriate thoughts crop up inside his head but he smothers them as quickly as they come. In his avoidance he becomes hyper vigilant. More aware of the fact that in the wake of the accusation, although true, his touch has become a touch rougher and less gentle. Whatever tenative peace they might have reached had been shattered when he couldn't keep his mouth shut. An eternity passes before the needle is finally set down and his hands are released.

     "Wear gloves and try not to pop the stitches. The last thing we need is to be wasting time doing this again."

     It's that same cool and collected tone he had before, nothing changed. Curt manages to mutter a thank you that receives no acknowledgement if it was heard at all. Instead, he moves back to his own bed, and the younger is left to contemplate the answers to several questions, wondering if he might manage to get answers to any of them.

     "How did my things get here?" It's the least pressing of the issues on his mind but when his eyes land on his bag it tumbles out regardless of intent. Gaze flickers back to the other who doesn't even glance his way when rendering a response.

     "I got them from your hotel, and I brought them up before I woke you. Do turn off the lights, only one of us got to sleep on the way here, and we've got a long way to drive tomorrow."

     Obediently, he turns off the bedside lamp, moving his bag off of the bed before heading to the light switch itself. For a moment and only a moment, he debates attempting to change clothes in the dark but he decides against it, instead opting to slide into his bed still wearing his slacks from the day. He can change in the morning. The words good night almost fall from his lips but his better judgement bodes against it. Instead he lays back, exhaling softly as his head hits the pillow. He finds himself laying like that for well over an hour, listening to the sound of Owen's breathing, before sleep finally comes to claim him.


	5. Awake and Alive

     Coffee. An overwhelming desire for it is the first thing that registers with him upon waking. He's tired and sore, and all he really wants is the caffeine to get himself ready to face the day. One that with any luck will be less eventful than the day that preceded this one. Rolling out of bed, he glances over to the agent in the other bed, still sleeping. It makes sense that he would be, considering he hadn't gotten any rest like he did in the car. Without the worry of wayward gaze or accidental glances, he changes into clean clothes, feeling more put together again with such a simple action.

     Once again, he glances in the direction of the british agent, seeing only the mess of dark hair on the pillow peeking from beneath the edge of the blanket. At least he hadn't abandoned him in the middle of the night as some sort of test. He's still not certain the last one has ended. There's an internal debate that questions the wisdom of leaving the room but the need for caffeine far outweighs the risk that the room will be empty upon his return. Maybe it'll be better if he is gone, he won't have to deal with the insufferable _jackass_ anymore.

     About twenty minutes later, he returns, with two steaming cups of coffee. He's already managed to drink two of them downstairs, but it's not until the third he gets the kickstart he needs. Against his better judgement, he decides to bring one for Owen as well, just in case. Part of him is relieved when he opens the door to see the other already getting dressed to face the day.

    "Morning." Tone is seemingly indifferent and met only with a noncommittal sound of a man not fully awake. Walking around to the side of his bed, he offers the cup in a gesture of peace treaty. "I brought you some coffee, you said last night it would be a long drive today. Thought you might need it." Thanks would be the acceptable reaction to the kind offer, but it only remains in the british agent's hand for a few seconds before it finds its new home in the trashcan.

     "I don't drink anything I haven't prepared myself. I would have thought after yesterday that you'd do the same. You have a lot to learn, Mega, there's just one problem."

     Annoyance creeps into the back of his mind but considering the events that had transpired less than twenty four hours prior, he has to begrudgingly admit that it's smart. Even if he hadn't drugged it, a part of him wishes he had, and that Owen had drank the whole thing. Maybe he wouldn't have tortured him, but leaving him bound and gagged somewhere in the vast Romanian countryside? He can't deny that it would have been at the very least quite a pleasing revenge. At least until he felt guilty enough to come back or the british bastard hunted him down.

     "And what would that be?"

     "I'm not your teacher, or your babysitter, I'm hardly even your partner. You need to learn to stand back, shut your mouth, and let the professional handle things, since you clearly can't." The condescension pours out of his tone seeming to Curt to sound both patronizing and indifferent at the same time in a mix that's violently infuriating as it crawls beneath the surface of his skin. A slap in the face that stings without benefit of contact. 

     It can't be said that Curt didn't at least make some sort of attempt to make peace, when he certainly hadn't been the one to fire the first shot. His ribs still ache from the force of the blow from the bat he'd taken to the chest less than 24 hours prior. He wants to bite back for the indignity of the remarks that so clearly continue to disparage him and question his abilities, but instead he swallows his pride for once as he reckons that he'll have to work with him for a while, and he can't be entirely certain exactly how long. If he's lucky, it'll only last until they reach wherever the final destination is meant to be. A waypoint on an already exhausting journey, he turns to walk away and finds he still can't help making some sort of comment under his breath out of sheer bitterness.

     "Well fuck you too."

     "What was that?"

     He gets the distinct feeling that Owen heard exactly what he'd said. A power play, something small seemingly inconspicuous to one who didn't know any better. Turning back around, Curt sticks his thumbs in his pockets and regards the other man with a look that certainly says he'd like to repeat himself, but instead he raises his eyebrow and cocks his head in the direction of the restroom with an almost incredulous sort of air about him. "I said I was gonna take a piss, why? Did you want to join me and keep this dick measuring contest going? Please, by all means join me."

    The british agent's eyes narrow, and he mutters something under his breath that Curt can't make out but he suspects strongly resembles his original remark, or perhaps something a bit less kind, but he's shaking his head and leaning down to pick up his shoes. Taking the concession, however small, as a victory he saunters to the bathroom standing a little taller and feeling just the slightest bit more smug than he had before.

* * *

 

     If he thought the first night's car ride was painful, this one could be classified as complete and utter agony as hours felt more like eras that passed in perfect silence that neither of them dare to break. The mission in question is still a mystery to him, and with their minor confrontation in the hotel room, he doesn't bother asking again. The only inkling of a clue he's gotten as to where they're going has been have been when they've passed over borders and the he's caught the names of countries in Owen's brief interactions with border guards that generally involved the other man slipping whoever was monitoring the roads a rather substantial note rather than bothering with the fuss of passports. It's the last one that catches his attention most. Czechoslovakia. They're heading into the war zone. He probably should have guessed that, it's only one of the most important occurrences happening in the world aside from the cold war.

     After World War II, the entire area had been plunged into turmoil, a political and social disaster. Everyone had been forced to rebuild and reconsider in the fallout while the dust continued to settle. Happiness was hard to find, peace even harder as the ideologies still hung thick in the air. Everyone was scared. From that pain and fear rose one of the most important political parties of the decade as the Prussian Sloviskia party began to rally and gain power in the underground circles at first. People were dying in the streets, the governments were left in turmoil, and the economy had fallen to shambles, and so the citizens did the only thing they could. They turned to the shadows for the help their officials were so unwilling to provide. It started small. Posters plastered on walls, meetings in back rooms, whispers heard in dive bars and discussed as a laughable concept amongst friends when out of earshot of the police forces that roam the streets.

     Secrets and whispers seem a far fetched hope for many, but the need for hope begins to outweigh the fears as the power begins to grow and flourish. In 1951 the first major stunt of political activism takes place when the revolutionaries awaken to find that the homes of their officials and government buildings have been vandalized, each with the same phrase in large hastily painted letters. WE HAVE SEEN YOUR CRIMES. THE PEOPLE WILL RISE. The letters glared large and dripping from too many places to be ignored. The same words were carved into bathroom stalls and scrawled across crumbling walls, a warning or a beacon of hope few could decide. Posters became more prevalent as authorities tore them down, the party condemned publicly and at length by the government as a sect of terrorist extremists.

     It isn't until 1954 that the war begins. A boy quickly turned man by the name of Lukas Bauer becomes the martyr of a revolution. An idealist who believed that he could change the world at the tender age of 19, he was young, and beautiful. No one would ever forget his face, but they would never learn his story. A boy with two sisters, raised by only his father after his mother was killed in the war. Always raised to believe in what was right and to fight for everything he believed in, he wanted to live to see the end to the terror. He wanted to help end it. Arrested twice for vandalism when caught putting up posters and spray painting walls, he was vocal in his support of the Prussian Sloviskian party. Proudly, he once proclaimed that should the cause call for it, he would gladly lay down his life for it. Less than three months later, his blood would be what sparked the gunpowder of one of the bloodiest uprisings that Europe had ever seen. They don't remember him for those moments, nor the family he left behind who were slaughtered in their sleep by parties unknown, they remember him for the broadcast.

     The president was holding a press conference on live television to address the slow but steady uprising that the Prussian Sloviskian party was slowly encouraging and gaining in support as the Furghens, a prominent family in society, had finally voiced their stance upon the issue and shaken the people with their support of the revolutionary party despite the immense political pressure that demanded they submit to the government's version of events and the subscribed rhetoric on the subject. For all the confusion surrounding the party, the start of the war is indisputably rooted in the moment that Lukas managed to find his way to the stage, screaming of revolution. Shouting to the people to rise. It would not have been a memorable moment if not for the shots fired upon him. The live broadcast of a brutal murder of a young man, shouting for the uprise that has been long since coming, is an unshakeable image. The match is lit by that moment, but the president's refusal to accept responsibility for it, the claim that it was an unavoidable tragedy, the caution he warned to those in support was the kerosene that set the world alight.

     In an instant, the streets are flooded and the broadcast is shut down as the crowd gathered begins to shout and the violence begins. The whispers of revolution long held as deadly secrets become the battle cry of a people rising to claim power from the corrupt. There are no bystanders as all are forced to choose their side of a battle rife with destruction and death. By the end of the day there are bodies laying in the streets, staining them crimson as the region is plunged into the an uprising over a boy on a screen in which they all someone different.

     A distraught mother standing outside a store watched young Lukas fall and saw her son, and then the authorities on the corner. The glass is broken by a rock thrown through it in the direction of the television sets as if it will somehow reverse the tragedy. She picks up a piece of broken glass, and soon her body is staining the streets, a blossom of crimson across her chest where she'd caught a bullet. Beside her a soldier, agape with the shard still protruding from his neck as he struggles for air. His comrade knows it's too late for him, and would have offered him the mercy of a bullet if not for the angry people seeming to be coming towards him, righteous in their anger. He's outnumbered, and the blood has already begun to spill. A soldier sees it on his day off, sitting at home with his wife and toddler daughter who is far too young to understand the meaning of it. By the time the broadcast ends he's already gone to the wardrobe and begun to change into uniform, grabbed his rifle. On his way out the door he kisses his daughter on the forehead and hands her mother a pistol. He tells them to be safe. In only a week his wife is struck down, his daughter is never found. Kilian Prazak watches huddled around a grainy television set with several other members of the Prussian Sloviskian party, and his blood boils over. His best friend lies dead on the stage for all the world to see before the broadcast shuts down. A martyr of the cause, he's seeing red from the moment that his feet touch the ground.

     Curt had been keeping close tabs on the situation from afar, but he was always quite certain that the information had been quite altered and sanitized. In the months since the blood had begun spilling, there had been several cities claimed by either side, and none with reputations that claimed hospitality to outsiders. Too much distrust has been bred, and the accusations of spying are often unwarranted but prosecuted just as harshly. A spy's nightmare, hardly helped by the fact that the liberation of concentration camps had only been ten years prior. He could still remember asking his mother about them, only ten years old and truly unable to understand the horrors that befell their people. Back then, he could not understand the concept of the essence of evil distilled in human skin. As an adult he only wishes he could be so oblivious. Sinking a bit lower into his seat, he suddenly feels quite small, hyper aware suddenly of the heritage he's always been quite proud of. It isn't shame that makes the star of david beneath his shirt burn, but worry. In an area once again entrenched in war, he can't help the fear that seeps into the edges of his mind as the images that he had seen but not understood as a boy filter into his mind unbidden. The tension hangs so thick and heavy in the air that it does not go unnoticed. As Curt stares out the window, he can see Owen glancing in his direction with some sort of expression on his face that he can't make out but he says nothing, and makes no move to even acknowledge the tension as the drive continues.

     The car is pulled to a stop in a thicket off a dirt road a scarce few miles from the main road. Before they had pulled off, the american had been able to make out a haze of lights on the horizon before they had pulled off onto the path, a city of some sort he guessed, but remained quiet. As they drew closer to what he assumed was their destination, he found slowly he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know exactly what they were going to do, but he committed to the mission. A job is a job, he'll get it done, he'll go home, and then he's going to have dinner with his mom. She knows he's a spy, that he has a license to kill, but she never gets to know just how close to danger they'll be tonight.

     "Grab your bag. We've got a ways to go." Owen sounds off as he piles out of the car, surprising the other man if only just. He hadn't seen another vehicle, but the headlights had been off, he might have missed it. Silently, he gets out, and retrieves his bag from the trunk before it strikes him that even in the dim light of the moon he can't see any other modes of transportation, and notes that he can smell gasoline. It surprises him to see the british agent holding two gas cans, but before he can ask he's splashing them over and into the vehicle, before throwing them inside. "You might want to step back." Minimal warning is enough for Curt to take before a match is lit and tossed into the fuel, consuming the vehicle in flames in an instant, filling the space with heat and light.

     "Now what?" The american asks, somehow feeling that asking for an explanation would simply be a waste of time and energy, both of which he feels he's going to wish he had more of soon as he regards the taller man with a sort of weariness.

     "Now we walk. It's almost three hours to the hotel, I'd conserve your energy, you're going to need it."


	6. People Cling To Light (to Drive away the Fear)

     "Why did we have to burn the car?" Curt finally deigns to ask after they've walked for an hour in the nearly pitch black night, now far enough from the fire that the light and smoke have cleared from the sky exposing the dark of the clouded night that hides near all but the moon. He's walked longer than this, run longer than this for that matter, but the region makes his uneasy when he can barely make out the figure of Owen walking just ahead of him.

     "You bled in it- we couldn't risk leaving DNA behind."

    A sound reasoning if there ever was one, he has to begrudgingly admit, though he can't tell if it's the paranoia that's forcing himself to believe that there was some trace of blame in the other man's voice. As if he had chosen to be bleeding in the car on the first leg of their journey. Still, he bites his tongue, as whining and questioning will do them no good. They trudge onward alongside of the dirt road, but he can feel eyes on him, through the darkness. After what had happened the last time he felt that, his nerves stood on edge, glancing around but unable to see in the dark. Slowly, his hand goes to the pistol at the small of his back as he raises his voice only barely loud enough to garner attention from the older spy. "I think we're being watched."

     There's a brief sound of acknowledgement from the other man, and he has a feeling he's going to have to get used to interpreting those in time, but now is not the time for that. A sound to their right, a snapping branch underfoot. He can hear Owen's footsteps cease, and his own gun has already been drawn to meet the threat. Turning, he takes a step but Owen puts a hand on his arm to stop him. "Prazak, if you're hiding in the woods you best come out before my partner starts firing."

     A flashlight suddenly clicks on, illuminating the area with dim yellow light. A young man, no older than Owen, with a charming sort of grin and a mess of dark locks stands before them, dressed in a dirty pair of jeans, beat up boots, and a tattered indigo jacket with dark splotches scattered across it. He tips his head, looking briefly at Curt before he swings his light to focus on Owen. "Mr. Carvour, I would have thought that you would _appreciate_ the flare for the dramatic." Pausing, his light moves back to Curt, his expression is a little less soft, eyeing him a bit more critically than he did the british agent. "And who is this?"

     "I-"

     "Agent Curt Mega," the older agent speaks over him as his hand drops from his arm rather suddenly. "The Americans sent him to protect their own assets."

     "Interesting." The stranger muses, looking over him again with a slightly less cold expression, despite the obvious annoyance held in Curt's reaction, though it was aimed more strongly in the direction of his partner. "Well then Mr. Mega..." Sauntering forward, he locks eyes with Curt, and even in the dark he can see the rich shade of blue that they're colored. He extends his arm to him, but when the american reaches for his hand, he grasps his forearm, suddenly closing the gap between them as he tugs him a bit closer. "Welcome to the revolution."

    Curt is treated to a toothy grin that shines even in the darkness, and it makes him almost weak at the knees as Prazak doesn't release his thrall until the british agent rolls his eyes and clears his throat. "If you're done, Kilian, have you gotten what I asked?"

    A chuckle greets the question, chin falling to his chest before he releases the american's arm at what feels to him like long last. "Do you think I would be here at all if I didn't? You did not mention your friend though, we'll have to simply make do." Gesturing the pair to follow him to the tree line, Curt glances to Owen, waiting for a response, not yet holstering the weapon that had been transferred to his left upon Kilian's approach.

     "I didn't know that I would have company for this. The Americans decided to enter the fray at the lost possible moment, I've been forced to adapt my plans." A biting comment about his adaptability wells in the pit of Curt's stomach but it falls silent as they slip through the trees to see two motorcycles glinting under the glow of the light, along with a jacket similar to Kilian's own.

     It's tossed to the british agent before he looks to the American, and then shrugs off his own holding it out to him. "They are already quite familiar with who I am, I have no need to blend in. I was not expecting you, I apologize, but as I said before, we will make do."

     Accepting the jacket, he nods his thanks, shrugging it on, somewhat surprised that it fits comfortably until he gets a better look at the man without the bulk of the jacket. A man clad in a t shirt that might have once been wholly white not tinged brown and crimson, the brightness of the color contrasting against the umber glow of his skin, he can't help noticing the fit. In an instant, he forces his gaze back to the bikes before he can start drooling. "Before either of you can ask-" His voice cuts through the brief silence like a knife, glancing between the two of them briefly before looking back to the bikes. "-I do know how to ride, it's just a matter of who I'll be riding with."

     "You'll ride with me." Owen's voice is confident, as though the question is non sequitur. A simple answer as he moves to the back of the bike, examining the straps to see how best to attach the luggage brought along for the journey ahead.

     "Actually-" A pause as Kilian draws both of their attention with a single word, the british agent seeming already annoyed by the interruption, while the american simply looks to him with an eyebrow raised. "-it might be wise if Mr. Mega were to ride with me... It would draw less attention. Two outsiders on a single bike might raise questions, even in uniform. As for me, they know me quite well. I have brought outsiders before, it will raise less questions. That is... as long as you are comfortable, Mr. Mega?"

     He can feel the other agent's eyes boring into him, willing him to say no. To refuse and ride with him. As though he's meant to somehow trust him more for the fact that he's his supposed 'partner' but he harbors little trust. Perhaps as much as he does for the handsome stranger before him. Glancing to Owen, he can see the gaze first hand, but even so, he turns to Kilian with a self satisfied sort of smile. "I don't mind at all, Kilian, was it? Feel free to call me Curt." Another one of those dazzling feels and he feels the slightest bit weak at the knees before he turns to hand his bag to the other agent whose gaze would have killed him if it could.

     "Well then, Curt... you might know how to ride, but I would certainly feel more comfortable if you took this." Reaching over the handlebars, he picks up the helmet from the seat and offers it in the american's direction. "It is not a long ride, but I would rather be certain that you arrive in the same condition that we leave. With things being what they are, it is not something that we can lightly risk."

     "Of course." Perhaps Owen might have a problem with being gracious, but he's trying to be kind as best he can manage. Fastening the helmet as the british agent tightens the crossing of straps over the bags on the back of his own bike, he glances to him again before the flashlight is turned off and tucked away. Eyes flicker to the ground, rather than watching Kilian mount the machine. It wouldn't be seemly to be caught staring so openly despite his admiration. Once the man is settled on the bike, he moves beside it, swinging his leg over and shifting to a comfortable position.

     "You will have to be closer than that, Curt. I thought you had said you have ridden before?"

     "I have- I'm just usually the one in front." His voice is softened slightly, and even in the lack of light he can almost feel Owen's glare, the way he rolls his eyes because it's another moment of incompetence as he slides a bit further forward, putting his arms around the man and he can feel just how broad he is as he tries to adjust as close as comfort will allow, only to be met by a low, rumbling laugh he can feel brewing in Kilian's chest.

     "You can get closer, I will not bite." Without another word, he reaches back and pulls Curt closer until their hips are flush and instinctively, the american's grip tightens around the stranger. "Like that. Remember that you are holding on for your life. Falling off of these is not a pleasant feeling, and that jacket will provide little protection should you become detached from me."

     Little else registers for Curt after the words 'like that' fall from the man's lips. It takes a solid several seconds for tone and inflection to catch up with him, much less the rest of the sentence. The tips of his ears burn and he's suddenly quite glad for the cover of darkness that covers what would surely be embarrassing at best, and catastrophic at worst. Forcing himself to nod, his chin bumps his shoulder in the process from where he sits behind him. "One last question, mind telling me where we're going?"

    "I am surprised your partner has not yet told you... We are going to Kosice." The slight surprise actually registers in his voice, but anything else he might have said is drowned out as Owen's bike roars to life and he gives Kilian a meaningful look. They have things to do, which means a lack of time for these conversations, no matter how important they might be to Curt's understanding of the situation. The bike comes alive beneath them, and the two controlling the machines nod to each other before they pull out of the woods. The revolutionary takes up the front, taking a slow pace to begin as their ascent to the dirt road ahead, with frequent glances back to the other man to be sure he's making similar time as they move forward.

     It isn't until they reach the road that he can feel a rumbling, not from the bike, but the man. Something like the laugh he had felt earlier on. The american almost asks him what's so funny, but he feels it shortly after. The air is pulled from his lungs as the bike suddenly lurches forward on the now stable ground, and through the roaring of air rushing by, he can hear Owen doing the same, but it doesn't matter to Curt within a moment because it feels like soaring. A laugh builds in his chest, vibrates there, but he's breathless as he's helpless to do little but cling to this relative stranger. Briefly, the thought of having to do the same to the british agent infiltrates his mind and even with his own insistence on it he can see the scowl in his mind, some sort of condescending comment that would undoubtedly come upon their dismount for something he's done wrong. Maybe he'd made the right choice.  The impulse to outstretch his arms, hold to the bike with only his thighs strikes him, but he neglects to follow it, instead clinging tighter to the man in front of him as the lights on the horizon seem to grow ever brighter and burn like a sun after the darkness of the woods. Kosice, he assumes. It's not much to go off of, but it's something. The capitol of the resistance, a simultaneously powerful and dangerous place to be in the heart of a war. No wonder Kilian had forfeited his jacket to help him blend in.

     Maybe the fact that they'll be in the city will inspire the british agent to be more forthcoming with information about what they're doing. Still, it's not difficult for him to deduct his own country's stake in destabilizing the government in place and removing several of Russia's allies in one fell swoop. It's not exactly rocket science, though it's a question of how exactly they'll be going about it. The lights have grown bright and close through his train of thought and the vehicle is finally slowing. He guesses it's for the guards in similar jackets, holding rifles as they stand at something resembling attention. They come to a stop, Kilian's feet planting on the ground but the bike remaining on, he nods to them.

     "Nechte i mého přítele, že ano?" Curt can't make out the words but the guards nod, waving them through, as well as Owen who had stopped not far behind them. He hadn't been kidding about being known.

     They pull ahead again, but at a slower pace than before. In the city itself, the american see the dark red that has yet to be cleaned from the streets, and the dilapidation of buildings on the edges of the city that seem to come into better repair as they move farther down streets. It isn't long before they pulled into an alleyway, shortly followed by the british agent, and the leg of the journey was over. Dismounting, it takes a fraction of a moment to regain his footing beneath him, glancing first to Owen, and then once more to Kilian as he removes his helmet and runs a hand through his hair to try to minimize the damage done to his appearance. "Thanks for the lift." He sets the helmet on the seat and starts to shrug off the jacket as well but he's stopped by a hand resting on his shoulder.

     "You should keep it for now, I have the feeling we will be seeing each other again."

     "I wouldn't plan on it." The british agent's voice cuts through, an indifferent sort of tone to his voice as he deposits his own helmet onto his seat. He hardly spares them a glance as he moves to the back to unstrap the bags from the back.

     "You never know, Kosice is small, and you might find yourselves in further need of _assistance_." Fingers trail off of Curt's shoulder with the final word, still captivating the american with that dazzling smile, before his gaze flicks to the british agent. "You know how to find me, Mr. Carvour, should you need me- and as for you, Curt... I should hope I will hear from you as well. My assistance is available to you, should you also find yourself in need."

     "We'll manage on our own, Prazak. I believe you have a revolution to be running, don't you?"

     Another tone, seemingly indifferent, and it draws Curt's attention as he moves to retrieve his bag. The moment he takes hold of it, he can hear the bike roaring to life behind him. Turning back, he looks in time to see Kilian on his bike, revving up his engine before taking off. He can't see his face as he leaves, but even so he gets the distinct feeling that he's still smiling.


	7. Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this chapter being so short, all! I have the next chapter mostly written (and much longer) it just needs a bit of polish before I post it!

     Standing in the darkened alleyway, Curt is left blinking at the revolutionaries sudden departure, before he manages to recollect something resembling though. _Yes, I think we will see each other again._  Words filter into his thoughts before disappearing again as he turns back to his partner. The second motorcycle had been left behind, something he's inclined to question but there are more important inquiries burning at the forefront of his mind. In the darkness, he raises a brow that Owen can't see, eyeing him with both expectancy and apprehension. Voice unsticks itself from the back of his throat at long last, slipping into the humid air and hanging there in the sticky heat.

     "So, are you telling me why we're here yet, or am I just supposed to keep guessing? It seems like your friend Kil-" The other man's hand claps over his mouth rather suddenly, closing the distance between them in an instant. The british agent glances about rather quickly, scanning their surroundings for any prying eyes or listening ears. He recognizes that the impulsive decision was a stupid one when they're so out in the open, and in the midst of unfamiliar territory.

     "It's a wonder you aren't dead yet..." A pause, he sighs, a sound heavy with the weight of his annoyance before he lowers his volume. "We'll talk at the hotel."

      _It's almost as if we should have talked about this during the car ride here._  Thought is bitter, but Curt swallows it, waiting for Owen to move his hand before he decides to respond. "Put your hand over my mouth again and I'll bite it."

     "Make me do it again, and it won't be my hand."

     The american almost makes a vulgar comment in response but instead allows things to lapse into a tense silence as they collect their things. Gaze flickers back to the bike momentarily, wondering what would become of it, as it seemed like an awful waste to leave it behind, but the british agent is already in motion and he has to continue their trek. The streetlights flicker overhead barely maintaining their power. It makes the pools of dried crimson in the streets seem almost like shadows left behind, forgotten by those who they belonged to. There are bullet casings scattered under foot, and windows shattered to either side. A battle took place here, staining the streets and concrete and leaving the area in shambles. Forcing the feeling of being watched to the back of his mind- he has no doubts that they are- his footsteps fall in time as he ducks his head down, following the other's lead. They need to be as inconspicuous as possible, but even bundled in the jacket that's meant to be a measure of protection against the status of outsider, he can't help feeling like he's walked into a lion's den. The rattling of casings beneath his feet sounds suspiciously like the crunching of bones to his ears.

     The hotel, as Owen had called it, seemed less like an accommodating place for outsiders so much as it seemed to the naked eye to be a makeshift barracks with an amalgamation of people sporting the same coat mill about in the lobby of the building. Several mutter in english, others in languages that the american can't recognize. As the british agent goes to the desk and speaks to a brusk looking man with a thick black ledger, he moves to the side of the room, leaning against the wall to survey the area without drawing attention as best he can. Nearly all of them seem to be openly toting their guns about, a few hiding their own, albeit poorly. He wonders how many of them have actually killed someone with those guns. With some he can see it, the haunting in their eyes and the look of men world weary with all they've seen since the bloodshed began to stain their lives. Others it's harder to tell. The young man who might still be a teenager playing cards with a coat that easily looks a size too large for him. The girl in the corner with a needle and thread, humming a tune as she mends clothing as another is unabashedly trying to catch her attention while she seems to maintain focus on her work. Curt can still see the smile creeping onto her lips. Everyone is wearing clothes in various states of disrepair, some shoddy, others seeming almost new if not for the stains sprayed across them. A man in his thirties is trying to stitch his own arm with little assistance, and he feels the urge to offer his help but the british agent is beside him again, muttering for him to follow, as though having the words heard will cause trouble. Sparing one last glance to the man, he decides to follow, in greater need of answers than he feels obligation to help a stranger.

     Mounting the stairs, he's almost surprised to find that the farther they ascend, the better the condition of the building. Less men looking lost, less half cleaned messes and busted doors. It's quieter as well, and yet he still finds himself surprised when the door is opened not to reveal the bunks of a military installation but a fairly standard hotel room. Shutting the door behind them, he looks to the other man with an expectant expression that follows him as he sets his bag down and begins to methodically check the room. "Well? I was promised _answers_."

     "You weren't promised anything-" The clipped response comes as the british agent opens the bathroom door and looks inside, before moving to the closet at the american's right to look inside as well.

     "You said-"

     "I said we would talk at the hotel- and we are talking. That's by no means a promise. Words have meanings, Mega, you should know that by now." An indignant response rises in Curt's chest, demanding he rise to a challenge not stated, growing increasingly frustrated by the lack of information he's been provided thus far. A string of hoops to jump through that he's long since grown weary of playing into. Answers are not just something he wants, but he needs. Stricken to silence, he must look like he's about to break something as the british agent relents. Seemingly satisfied with his search, he goes to his bag and removes the case file and glancing through it. If he was feeling in a generous mood he could simply tell Curt the major points and save him the trouble, but instead he tosses it onto one of the beds with an almost indifferent air. " _Here_. Be familiar by morning, we have work to do."

    Trance breaks and he watches the british agent with some trepidation, almost expecting there to be some catch or string attached. Like a gun might be pulled on him if he draws too close. Curiosity, however, gets the better of him as he approaches the bed and picks up the manilla folder that remains eternally familiar. A blessing or curse, it's hard to tell at a glance, moving it to the bedside table before he shrugs off the coat and kicks off his shoes. The heat of the night still encroached indoors, and he'd rather allow himself some measure of comfort as he removes his overshirt as well, eyes scarcely leaving the folder. Finally, he settles on the bed with his back to the headboard and pillows shoved to the side, flipping it open to lay splayed in his lap as he reads it.

 _The victory of the Prussian Sloviskia party is crucial to the safety and sanctity of world peace. The destabilization of the region is essential in removing several allies of Russia as well as removing several major resources from the KGB. Your contact, Kilian Prazak, is a high ranking member of the revolutionary party and will be an invaluable source of information. Should you have need to contact him-_ a large swath of the text has been run over with a thick layer of black ink, effectively destroying the information. Stopping to spare a glare in the direction of Owen who seems to remain oblivious to the look as he goes about settling in, if only just. Enough to make things easily accessible at a moment's notice. This likely won't be a short mission. He returns to reading the documents before him after the moment of annoyance. _There is reason to believe there are several moles within the party, some of which are high ranking with access to highly privileged information. You are to assist the revolution in any way possible while keeping knowledge of british and american influences minimal. Should you be placed in the proper position, you are to eliminate the moles._ Several sheets of paper are included with descriptions of moles with images of a spare few, some clearer than others, as well as general notes on the political and social climate that Curt hardly needs with his own studies. Still, one image sticks in his mind and warrants a closer look.

     "The man at the desk- he's one of the moles?" Holding up the photograph in question, he looks to Owen who doesn't need to look up for confirmation. He already knew, that much is quite clear.

     "It's why we're staying here, rather than in the barracks closer to the center of the city. We don't know that he's a mole yet, we'll learn that tomorrow."

     It's an almost ominous statement, but if nothing else, the american can respect the work ethic. The faster they can work through the list of suspects, the faster they can leave. He does his best not to think too critically about the exact sentiments and meanings of 'eliminate the moles'. With any luck, they won't have to add to the blood in the streets. Not that he believes that it's possible, not really. This city is a glorified graveyard, it's why the plants flourish on the outskirts and in the cracks in stone, blood is more nourishing than water, the soil cries for it. Far too many are willing to oblige the thirst it seems. A persistent feeling of something missing creeps into his mind as he continues glancing over the file, it feels too light. There's information being withheld, he's certain of it, but coming at Owen with demands or accusations is unlikely to yield any results so he capitulates.

     "Thanks." There's no response, he probably should have expected as much, and lets it roll off his shoulders. "You have a plan yet?"

     "I do."

     A silence follows, heavy with expectation as the american waits for the elaboration of this plan, only to be greeted with still and quiet air. "Well?"

     "You'll find out tomorrow."

     "Of course I will."


	8. Holes In Your Coffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jumping from the end of the last chapter, blood is shed in this chapter, and the consequences are swift and heavy. How does an agent become a killer? What happens after their first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proceed with caution as this chapter includes some graphic gore and some trigger heavy topics. Dedicating this chapter to historicalandgay for actually getting me back into this fic! There's quite a bit of 'missing time' in this chapter in jumping from moment to moment, but I promise you those blanks will be filled in later on.

     "Finish him off."

     The words come off flippant, callous almost. It might be considered a mercy to some, but it's still a human life. He might be an enemy but the knife feels heavy in Curt's hands and makes the guilt swill in his gut like something rancid. A decision that feels impending in its weight, he's not so foolish as to believe there's any sort of choice in the matter. The chances of Carvour letting him get away with pawning this off when he'd been such an all but idle observer to the torture aspect of this, getting little more than the wayward drops of blood upon the ends of his sleeves from his peripheral involvement in the messier business. The dim light glints off the blade as he regards it with what would appear to the naked eye as something akin to curiosity or interest. As if he's weighing the pros and cons of such an instrument for this particular task. He should know better, that Owen will see right through to the trepidation that lurks deep inside of his bones, and the face of the british agent contorts into something that the american can't read entirely until he hears the utter disgust within his tone.

     "You've never killed someone before, have you?"

     The answer might not be so clear cut as a yes or a no. He's certainly left some in the situation where it's likely that they did, beaten someone within an inch of their life when the fight demanded it and the adrenaline poured through his veins thicker and hotter than his own blood. But has he ever pulled the trigger? Driven the knife between ribs and watched the blood pour forth as the life dimmed and faded from their eyes?

     "Not directly."

     Voice is seemingly neutral, trying to shrug it off as an irrelevant detail, trivial sort of thing that shouldn't matter. But it does. He knows that it does and he can feel the other's piercing gaze upon him before he seems to relent. The younger's eyes flutter closed for a moment, seeming to bask in winning this brief battle of the wills, but it feels eerie. Too easy. He should know better, that it wouldn't be accepted so calmly and allow him such a simplistic out from the situation.

     "Alright, then I'll make this easy for you." The sound that follows is one that's become all too familiar with in the past days as a hammer cocks back and he knows without opening his eyes that it's pointed at him. He's getting tired of this coaxing at gunpoint. The Owen Carvour way it seems, is to follow his directions to the tee, operating at gunpoint when not acting exactly according to his plans. Regardless of the annoyance and aggravation gnawing at the back of his mind, his hand tightens its grip around the handle of the knife and his eyes open again. "It's him or you, Curt. You know we can't let him leave- no loose ends. Don't make yourself into another one."

    Jaw tightens as his gaze flickers from the struggling and gagged man, no doubt begging for his life and making assurances that he won't breathe a word but they both know better than that, to the cold and unflinching gaze of the predator in the room. A human life. A loose end. What difference is there really? Taking a wary step towards the man, he has to try to cleanse his mind, force himself to see this as nothing more than a training exercise. Drown out the pleading noises with his own heartbeat, juxtaposing the image with a dummy. If he does it right, it'll only take one blow to finish him. A quick death. Painless. _But it's not death, it's just a mannequin_.

     Drawing a deep breath he places a hand on his victim's shoulder, ignoring the way it shudders and shakes, the warmth of it. Nerves are hardened until he goes numb, crushing all doubt in a swift movement as he plunges the knife deep into the ribcage. The body still trembles beneath his hand, and he can feel the blood seeping out around the blade, hear the scream of utter and complete anguish. Mannequins don't scream. They don't bleed. They don't stay alive when you drive the knife between the wrong ribs and miss the heart by several inches. They don't continue twitching and writhing in pain as the blood starts to seep out around the gag and yet Curt can't find the strength to move for what feels like forever.

     A hand wraps around his own, coaxing him to remove the blade from the chest cavity of the man still dying but not dead, and it flips the switch from numbness to hypersensitivity to the warmth of the man standing just to his right, manipulating his hand to rest the knife against the neck of the man now bleeding more heavily from his chest in quite obvious agony.

     "You missed the heart." Words are muttered softly, at least they seem to be to Curt. Everything is coming through the haze of swimming sensations but he swears he can almost feel the heat of breath against his ear then. "The throat is easier. Quicker. You'll know when it's done, you can see it in the eyes."

     The blade rests there against the sensitive flesh and a piece of Curt almost wills Owen to move his hand again. Force the motion so he can claim a lack of control, a barrier between himself and the act itself. The blood is already on his hands though, and as he tries to reinstate the image of the training dummy all he can see is the blood that never used to bother him. But the blood was never deadly then. There was always the thin line that kept him on what he believed to be the side of righteousness. Now though, there was little he could do but finish what he's already started as he listens to the pained rasps of broken breaths through a gag, the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, his eyes lock with the other's, and in that moment, he drags the knife fast and hard across, effectively slitting his throat. The blood sprays out from the severed artery, with eye contact maintaining even as it splatters across him, painting the near pristine shirt with crimson and leaving his lips tinged with a copper tang as it drips like liquid rubies from his chin. He watches the moment the light goes from wide green eyes, and the knife falls from his blood slicked fingers in an instant, clattering to the ground as Owen steps back, wiping away what little had managed to make contact with his skin.

     "It was bound to happen eventually, Mega, you had to know that."

     Tone is calm, unfazed, but the american remains still as the heat of the blood begins to cool on his skin as he stares at the corpse he's created. Agent Curt Mega, the most unconventional asset at the CIA's disposal, now has a kill record.

* * *

     The heat of the July sunrise is very slowly beginning to crest over the building as Curt is forced to surrender his belt for the supposed greater good. The leather strap wrapping around a wrist to secure it in place in mirror to the british agent's own. People will soon be waking to see the horrific scene of the man they once knew, some of them perhaps even loved, tied to the angelic statue a tortured mess missing nails and teeth, the blood turning black and brown, still shining in places where it has yet to finish drying. Owen looks the man over as he stands back, still feeling sick from the grisly tasks they've already accomplished over the course of the night.

     They need to leave. They need to be far away before a guard turn a corner and see them standing, hands still wet with blood simply admiring the handiwork. There can be no plausible deniability if they're caught here and now. Still, the british agent still mumbles to himself like a goddamn lunatic, an artist looking for the final piece to their installation. Inspiration it seems finally strikes as the british agent takes his knife, and very deliberately drives it into the man's stomach, an action Curt wants to question for only a man. Why would someone stab a man that's already dead? Suddenly, he has an answer, as the other man takes a step back and to the right before violently ripping the knife across the corpse's gut, letting his intestines spill out in a gratuitous display of carnage that glimmers like rubies in the light of the rays of sun creeping through the gaps in the rooftops. It's grotesque in its unabashed and sickening nature, and the american feels his stomach turn and sour at the sight of it. Nothing makes a statement like a man partially crucified to the the stone visage of an angel with his innards spilled out for all to see. The display it seems isn't done, as the sadistic bastard leans down and presses his fingers into the growing pool of blood, sprawling dripping letters in massive messy arcs. He has to dip his fingers again, once, twice, three times, until the message is finally scrawled out on the back of the angel's wings. **CONFORM**. _Subtle_.

     Worse than anything is the realization of the apparent lack of bother on Owen's behalf at such a horrific scene. Merely wiping his blade, and then his hands, on the dead man's sleeve, careful not to get blood or guts on his shoes, he turns to Curt and merely gestures to him that it's time they move on. With a sickening feeling of absolute horror still brewing deep within him like a storm, he is helpless to do anything but follow. The warning that once felt warm now feels deathly cold upon his skin, shivering when a wind unfelt by anyone else passes him by. It isn't until they're several streets over that they hear it. The shouting, followed shortly by the agonized screams as the grisly scene is discovered. They duck their heads and walk just a touch faster in the direction of their hotel. 

* * *

     "Do it."

     Words are spit between clenched teeth, eyes boring into Owen's unflinchingly, even as the gun digs into his temple. Something inside him is split open and the hatred is pouring out from where it's been boiling beneath the skin from the moment they met. A primal sort of rage that can't be quelled, an animal at the end of a hunter's gun egging him on to take the shot. Point blank range. It would be easy. He doesn't doubt that the other will do it if he can just tip him past that edge. One hand wrapped around his throat the other holding the gun to his head with trigger finger twitching. He wants to do it, Curt is sure, but he's been dragging it out too long. What difference would it make if a monster killed another? This demon inside of him has been running rampant tearing at the flesh of guilt and feeding on the bloodlust that's been embedded in his mind. It doesn't matter as long as he can justify it. He didn't kill a man that might have had a family, he killed a monster. An enemy. A life with less worth than the training dummies. It's thoughts like that which scare him more than any other. Shoving the hand at his throat away with such sudden force it manages to catch the british agent off guard but he makes no move for the gun, merely sneers with derision, daring him once again."Just fucking do it." A brief pause, and he raises his voice to a bellow, "I SAID DO IT! PULL THE GODDAMN TRIGGER!"

     It's been a week since the crucifixion. A week of high tension. A week of acting like rabid animals circling each other with teeth bared and waiting for the opportunity to lunge for an exposed throat. The american never was adept at waiting for the right moment, he's always been prone to a more aggressive approach and perhaps that's why his back is pressed to the wall now. Why they've made no progress since the death of the bookkeeper. Since someone supposedly vetted thoroughly by those of high rank in the revolutionary leaders took his place, a woman with eyes like stone and a distinct lack of warmth. Her cousin martyred to the cause like so many others, she was the one to find his body strung up in the square. The one who's scream still haunts Curt. He can't meet her eyes, but it makes him no more suspicious than the countless soldiers who have lost all heart and soul, they forget often why they're fighting. Curt must look now though. Not at the cousin left behind, but at the partner who forced his hand, and he is all teeth grit and hardened expression. He's willing the british agent to do something to stop the spiraling madness of their constant circling. Owen won't pull the trigger. He can't.

     For a fraction of a second, it seems as if he might, as his eyes narrow and fingers twitch but he's met not with a bullet but rather the violent slamming of the pistol into his temple, drawing blood on impact and sending him sprawling to the floor. Trying to push up to stand he's caught by the heel of Owen's shoe, forcing him onto his back. Before he can sit up, there's a foot placed atop his chest and the gun pointed down at him.

     "You're pathetic, Mega. Begging for death." The venom and spite is returned as he stares at him, pushing down on the ribs just a touch harder than he needs to to keep him pinned there, but not enough to crack the bones. "Next time you say that, I will."

     Just like that, the weight is lifted from Curt's chest, he can breathe a bit easier as Owen walks away leaving him lying on the floor with a bleeding head wound and an ache where his wrist had been jarred on landing. There's a mix of emotions inside him, and he can't tell if he wants to laugh, or scream, or sob as he hears the door close behind the older, leaving him alone in the hotel room, shaking with a sudden fit of manic laughter on the hardwood floor. He's coming undone, he can feel it. Unraveling every time that the other tugs at his strings, and the puppet master is always pulling. Always yanking him about and playing him for the fool.

     " _Fuck you_." The words fling out like poison, tainting the air above him as he stares at the ceiling the fit of laughter comes to an abrupt end. "Did you hear me? I said FUCK YOU!"

     It doesn't matter that the intended target of the words isn't around to hear them, just as long as he can scrape the poison out of his lungs and expel them. Ignoring the tears pricking at his eyes, the heat of them as they spill over, his voice growing quiet again, but not soft. A hardened edge, sharp and cutting but inflicting all the damage upon himself. It seems to be a special sort of talent that in venting these frustrations and attempting to exorcise the seething rage that it kills him more than it does any damage to the other. Shaking with that silent anger, he's not sure anymore if he's talking to a ghost or himself anymore as he rolls over. Forcing himself to rise to his knees and stretch to reach the flask on the edge of the nightstand he rises to his uneasy feet, trying to steady himself despite the sensation that the world is spinning ever faster around him. Nausea rises inside of him thick and heavy but he chokes it down as he opens the flask and pours the whiskey down his throat, savoring the way it burns like fire until it settles in the pit of his rolling stomach. No matter the heat, it can't burn out the feeling sticking in the back of his mind where the hatred of the other agent battles against a feeling that he can't understand. A matter of mind over the sickening throbbing thing inside his chest. The flask is raised to his lips once again but only a sparse few drops fall to his lips.

     "Fuck!" Angrily he flings the flask away, flinching at the cracking sound that occurs. He looks to his right to see where the metal and made contact with the mirror, leaving splintering glass in its wake. He hadn't meant to throw it that hard. More quiet cursing under his breath, and he wonders when his vocabulary became quite so _colorful_ before he moves to clean up his mess _._ Curt's reflection is distorted through the cracks, but even so he can see the exhaustion held so thick and heavy and marked in the bruise like markings around his eyes, the red tinge surrounding his hazel irises. Recognizable still, but only just, and it's hardly helped by the blood running down his right temple, smearing across pale skin when he wipes some of it away with the palm of his hand to get a better view of the damage.

     Exhaustion might be physical, pushing himself to limits he didn't know that he had, and then past them with some sort of self righteous need to prove a point. To Owen, to Cynthia, to everyone who's ever doubted his skill as a spy as though he hadn't gone through the same grueling trials as any other and passed with flying colors. He's a special agent, he's damn good at what he does, and yet people are constantly questioning his abilities. His intents. His experience. He might be green but he's hardly innocent. Glancing down to his hands he can still see the blood if he thinks too hard and it hammers home the point. A piece of his humanity is forever lost. Of course he was never stupid enough to believe that it would never happen, but he'd thought that it would be more impersonal. A bullet to the back of a fleeing enemy, looking down the scope of a sniper rifle, something that didn't leave his heart pounding off rhythm and his hands slick with blood. Looking back to the mirror he can still see a little bit of the man's blood just below his ear where it had been missed in the rush to clean up the mess left behind. He still needs to burn the shirt. Best way to be absolved of a crime is to be certain there's no evidence left to find.

     That can be taken care of once the mess is cleaned up, not that there's much of one to be dealt with. A sparse few shards lay on the floor beside the discarded flask glaring up at him as he attempts to reach down to collect them. How long he'd been standing there is hard to say but it's been long enough for the faint buzzing sensation to spread through his mind and further rob him of the balance so thoroughly depleted by the emotional exhaustion of the minor breakdown he'd had not long before. The floor beneath him seems to pitch and roll beneath him as he attempts to collect them, slicing the tender flesh of his fingertips lightly in the process and staining the pieces with blood that causes the nausea to well back. In his alcohol addled mind, the blood is not his own, but rather that of the man whom he watched die. No, not watched die, killed. It's the least he can do to acknowledge what he's done, regardless of what crimes the other might have committed.  A human life reduced to nothing more than a red stain on his shirt and fingertips.

     Suddenly he can no longer hold back the bile and the churning contents of his stomach. The shards fall as he rushes to the bathroom, throws open the lid of the toilet and violently ejects everything in his system as if it will somehow cleanse him as he smears small crimson across the pristine white porcelain as he struggles for grip despite the slick surface. He's known this was coming since the moment he drove the knife home, it hadn't felt real then, but it feels real now. Demanding that he not only recognize what he's done but feel all of the guilt and pain as it slams home in the pit of his stomach. If Curt could crawl out of his own skin and become another man, he feels that he would in this moment, forget what's been done and leave behind the mantle of everything he's spent twenty years building his life around. The only connection he has to the father that died. At least what they assumed, the gospel of the Mega household, his poor mother's heart couldn't take the heartbreak of acknowledging that his status as missing in action might have been more intentional than either of them would like to believe. In living this life he pays tribute to his dad's legacy, he tells himself. In living this life he's becoming the man he would've wanted him to be no matter the way it breaks his mother's heart to know that she could lose him any day. The gut wrenching imagery of men in uniform at his mother's door with a folded flag brings around another wave of sick. Doubled over on the bathroom floor with vomit clinging to the corners of his mouth and blood on his fingertips is when it strikes home. The road he's chosen has no way back. Two years ago he'd signed his life into service that he couldn't possibly grasp then, only seeing the glory and patriotism but not the realization that he's become something bought and paid for in selling his humanity to a cause he's not sure he believes in now. Not like this. Not every move being monitored by someone in a lab, and not being hounded for his every move by his boss or the man that he's supposed to trust but on most occasions feels he'd be quite happy to throw under the wheels of the nearest bus. He's never felt more alone, more desolate than this. A sick heavy feeling sliding around inside of his chest that he wishes he could release as he slumps against the toilet trying to regain some semblance of bearings on his sense of self, tries to remove the words that he once thought of as a joke now emblazoned in his mind.

      _You're not a man, you're property of the United States Government_.

     Uttered by an all too perky blonde lab tech whose crush was all but spelled out in blazing neon letters over her head, who talked a little too fast, and got carried away with her enthusiasm. He had once found it almost cute, but it became less endearing with her thinly veiled flirtations and unwanted touch. That's how those words seem to him now. He'd laughed before, taking it to be a joke, but now they felt heavy and dark. Dehumanizing. Not a man but a machine, a tool to be used in aid of what's been interpreted to mean the greater good of mankind. Maybe he's playing a significant role, making the world safer for the simple price of his own autonomy. He can walk away, feign some sort of civilian life style, try to shed his skin as he's so desperate to do in this moment that seems unending but true freedom can never be achieved. He would always be looking over his shoulder, waiting for the day that it caught up with him and suddenly the thought that his father might have left is more sensible now than it ever was before. He's never seen someone quit this life, only retire when senility hit or disappear in the line of duty.

     Mind flashes back to the card Cynthia had him fill out before his departure, his final chance, the comment about _if_ he survives rings inside his brain and once again he sees his mother greeted by two men in uniform carrying the flag. The choice is there, in reach, but it's impossible to take. Not without causing cataclysmic damage to the last person alive left to care about him. The advantage of strings of one night stands is that he's never had to worry about the complications of strings attached and true, honest connection. Of course there are still the girls, beards that he cares for, sleeps with, but never loves. Never wants as more than a friend even as they lie between the sheets with laughter and seeming perfection. He'll court them, but he'll always leave them when they come too close, sever the ties before they have the chance to try to fall. They expect a safety net of loving them back but there's nothing there but reality. Cold, and hard, and unrelenting. He's already learned the consequences of waiting too long from past experience. Cynthia, he reckons, was more accurate in questioning if he could survive this than she'll ever know.

     Hauling himself off the bathroom floor, his knees shake and his body wretches, but there's nothing left to expel. Sweat and blood roll down his skin, as he stumbles his way back into the room, skimming his hand along walls and doorways to maintain stability, leaving thin red streaks in his wake. The shirt is grabbed from the top of his suitcase, followed by the bottle of whiskey, swaying as he straightens his back to stand again. His hands shake as he makes his way back to the bathroom, sets the whiskey on the counter, before he fumbles for the lighter in his pocket. Dangling the bloodied fabric over the tub, it takes him several attempts to ignite the flame, holding it to the edge of the sleeve until the cloth finally catches fire and begins the slow process of consuming it as he drops it into the bathtub. A funeral pyre for the man he was. He grabs the whiskey from the counter and brings it to his lips to lessen the blow as he watches the fire consume, charring the fabric once white now stained red and crumbling to black. Standing next to it, he pours one out for the man he used to be. For the man he could have been. For the thousand paths he could have chosen if he hadn't signed his soul away so easily in his vain attempts at procuring glory. What a fucking tragedy he's become. A train wreck masquerading in the skin of a man. Curtis Mega, son and man has long since died, he realizes that now. Special Agent Curt Mega, government property, had to destroy him to lay claim to his own existence.

     Eyes fall from the fire that consumes the shirt slowly to the bottle in hand, now half full. There's an urge to smash it in the tub and allow it all to go up in flames. He never used to feel so dependent on this crutch, never needed it to dull all the sensations that throb in his head and in his chest demanding his attention when he has nothing else to give but blood and sweat and tears he hasn't shed in years that now threaten to spill over. He tells himself it's just the smoke stinging his eyes but he knows far better than that. For a moment he holds the bottle over the flame, feels the heat rise and his grip begins to loosen on the glass, an act of defiance to the need forming a grip over his subconscious mind. Hand hovers there until the heat is too intense to bear and he draws it back with the bottle still in tact. He needs it. Takes a long, deep pull from it, ignores the way that it's become slightly warm from being held over the fire, and moves to the bathroom door. Pulling it closed, he fusses with the lock until it finally clicks into place and he slumps against the door as shaking legs give way beneath him and leave him to slide down onto the floor.

     It's sitting there on a bathroom floor with blood dripping onto the collar of his shirt, a small fire burning in the bathtub, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand that he truly start to crack. Eyes closed tight he tries to shut out the emotions, choke them down like a salted pill, but the tears fall anyways. Pain demands to be felt and it's screaming out now as it runs rampant through every part of him and yet nowhere at all. If someone asked him to show where it hurt he'd have to dissect his mind and pull his bloody broken heart of his chest and offer them in tribute in his attempts to appease and bring this torment to an end. It starts as a spare few tears but it becomes a torrential fall, shaking silently against the door as his emotions wrack him with silent sobs. The sort of sobbing he hasn't done since he was a teenager.

     Losing Tommy, his first love, his only love had torn holes in places he didn't know existed. They'd been destructive from the beginning, nothing but kerosene and lit matches, always seeing who could go the farthest take the biggest risk, who could inflict the most pain. In the end it turned out Tommy was quite adept at that. Fist fights were average, yelling was par for the course, they were always off before they came back on. One of them would cross a line and they'd fall apart until an apology came around. It was Tommy's turn to say he was sorry but the apology never came. Curt in all his bluster and anger claimed that it wasn't just over, that it would never happen again. He didn't mean it, he was only a child then, sixteen years old and sure he knew about the way the world worked and confident in their collective invincibility.

     He didn't expect to bury him in three days time. Didn't expect the boy so full of bright ideas and ridiculous schemes to steal his father's shotgun. Walking in the direction of his supposed 'best friend's' house, he didn't see the shot, but he could hear if a mile off, and started running. The tears didn't come when he saw the body, or when he stained his hands with blood for the first time, not even when they committed his body to the ground. The tears came in the form of howling at the moon after sneaking out of the house at half past midnight to visit their spot, half expecting the boy to show up with a grin and ask if he fooled him. He'd hit him, he'd kiss him, they'd be okay. But Tommy never came and the pain he'd been withholding became real. It was all over, and he never saw it coming. Never saw any signs and the guilt made its home in the hollow part of his chest where his heart used to be. It couldn't be his fault and yet it was. The first love is always the hardest to lose, but after him he knew he couldn't love again. It would destroy him. He swore off the whole concept made a promise to himself he'd go back to what he knew. Casual, all but anonymous, the sort of boys who would want more but be too scared of getting caught to come running back or run their mouths.

     No he hasn't cried since Tommy. Hasn't had to handle such a loss in four long years, and now? Now he's in the delayed stages of mourning for his own self. Gone to rest with his lost lover as he leaves his body to epiphanies on the cold bathroom floor of an Austrian hotel with the aid of whiskey and the smell of smoke. What soul he has must be splintered with the force of this brokenness. It surely can't all be in his mind there's something flawed and cracking deep inside him as he makes silent pleas begging his god for answers to questions he can't define. All he wants is freedom from this. The gnawing all consuming pain that will allow him no respite from the pain.

     The reprieve does not come as he tips his head back against the door and studies the ceiling where a thin layer of smoke has accumulated as the fire is starting to die out. He heaves out a breathe as he struggles to find a way to bring air back into his struggling lungs before he decides that he'd rather drown than suffocate. Bringing the bottle up to his lips, there's still half a bottle left but he's wondering how much will be left by morning as he opens his mouth and pours what must be several shots worth of whiskey down his throat. He'd rather have a direct hand in his self destruction than be so idle as to sit by and watch as he falls to pieces bit by fatal bit. The buzz returns, and the tears run dry, but the pain is still there, lurking beneath his skin and crawling back into the home its made deep inside his bones. It's easier to shut it off this way.

     He sits there, leaning against the door for what feels like an eternity, trying to recollect his thoughts and reign in the emotions that have been running rampant. So lost in thought and trying to immerse himself in the numbness that creeps in so familiar and comforting with the warmth and buzz that he's come to crave, that he doesn't notice when the doorknob rattles above his head. Part of him believes that he might be content to remain there for the rest of his life with the mingling of whiskey and the slight bit of smoke burning inside him, choking out the rage that had been so thoroughly all consuming not long before. Second fade to minutes, to hours that stretch to days, weeks, months, spinning out into an eternity where the whiskey never runs dry and the smoke never dissipates. A skeleton perfectly preserved on the bathroom floor with bottle still in hand until it finally falls to pieces, a pile of dust to be cleaned and tossed away. It's only the natural order of things.

     The door suddenly opens, and the thin layer of smoke on the ceiling spills out into the room as the support he'd had so firm against his spine is suddenly removed and he falls back onto the hardwood and stares up into the disapproving gaze of Owen Carvour who takes in the scene with an expression that reeks of disdain to Curt. He can't find the shame within himself so his mouth opens and the words spill out in their whiskey soaked glory, lacking all semblance of tact or diplomacy with eyes still stinging from tears and flame.

     " _Fuck off_ \- you're the last person I want to see right now." Words slip and slide together, but only just and he can see even from his vantage point on the floor that the older's disdain only increases as his gaze flickers to the bottle that's been made substantially lighter from the beginning of the night.

     "You're drunk."

     A seemingly accurate observation on cursory glance, one that sounds condescending to Curt's buzzing mind and his fingers curl a little tighter around the neck of the bottle. It feels like a security blanket in this moment. Some measure of protection as the wound on his temple suddenly seems to flare to life once again, insistent on being felt as surely as everything else. Lips are loosened from the ply of alcohol and the depth of emotion and return in a way that sounds sharp to him but comes off flat and less than supportive of the point he's trying to make. "No, I'm not. If I was I'd be trying to hit you in the balls right now- I want to do that sober too, but at least I'm not stupid enough to try."

     Definitely not sober to say the least, or he wouldn't be willing to even voice thoughts like that so freely as he makes no move to rise from the wood as he stares up at the man with an expression that says he still just might. It's certainly not out of the question at the very least. Stepping over him, Owen peers into the bathtub to see the source of the fire, the shirt now reduced to a slightly smoldering blackened pile. There's still blood smeared lightly on the floor and toilet, but it's not the worst he's ever seen. Turning back to Curt, he glares down at him as he still lays on the floor with the bottle in hand, seemingly without intent of moving anytime soon. "Get up."

     "Why should I?" It's an obstinate way of reacting as he closes his reddened eyes so he doesn't have to stare at the ceiling any longer. "What's the goddamn point?"

     He doesn't mean the point of standing, though he might mean that as well. There's booze still clouding his thoughts, drawing out the pain through the cracks and crevices in the hardness he's managed to build around the guilt that's supplanted his broken heart. Not that he's expecting an answer, nor is he expecting the other to know what he means, but the worlds split the air cruel and discomforting as they fall over him.

     "The point is you do it, or you die. You don't get to walk out of this job, you do it or you die. Pick one, and get up off the floor." It wasn't a request, the american is made to realize as Owen stoops down and takes hold of his shirt, forcing him onto his feet regardless of his own intentions. Hauling the bottle up with him, he's lucky he doesn't drop it in the process and further expand on the mess. It's the lifeline he's so thoroughly clinging to in his feeble attempts to make reality a bit easier to swallow. Curt finds himself being pushed and directed but he's hardly capable of making his own decisions as to what he'll be doing in this moment as the sudden rise had disoriented him and makes his head swim as he's prodded in the direction of the door, and unceremoniously pushed out into the hall. "Find somewhere else to whine. I'm going to bed."

     Any argument that Curt might have is cut off before it can begin as the door is shut in his face, and promptly locked. He knows better than to think it'll be opened again any time soon.


End file.
